Pinot Noir?

The thoughts for this post have been marinating for a couple of weeks. I'm still not certain about whether they are ready to post. Perhaps some other ingredients, i.e., your thoughts and your comments, will help.

Here's a picture of a nice glass of pinot noir. About three out of four Fridays each month we go down to the Glenside Pub for dinner and while we wait for our meal to come, we catch up on our weeks-just-past over my wine and his Heineken. Been doing this for more years than I can keep track of. Never thought much of that glass of wine other than how good it tastes and how nice it is to raise a glass with the love of my life.

I didn't grow up in a home with an alcoholic. Neither did my husband. When the kids were in high school, I was confident that they weren't drinking with their friends (I discerned this by the facial grimace on Sunday mornings as they choked down a sip of Communion wine).

Most of our friends are comfortable with a glass or two of wine, a beer or two. Heck, most of us don't even stock anything else! I'm a tad bewildered by our sons' recent fascination with scotch which I consider to be among the vilest tastes ever. But that's not what's inspiring the post because I think it will pass much as my own youthful fascination with gin did.

Truth be told, I've not thought a lot about alcohol in the past thirty-five years, other than to fine-tune which red wine I like on those Friday nights. In the past few weeks, however, that's changed.

First, someone that I've known, liked, and admired for several years lost a job because of inappropriate and excessive use of alcohol. Next, a good, close friend had the excruciating experience of confronting her twenty-something son about his drinking; fortunately, he's a wise lad and without an argument, he went off to a rehab center. The last thing that happened in this series of events was when another friend -- from a "girlfriend" friendship rather than a "couples" friendship -- told me that she and her children had employed a professional interventionist for help in persuading her husband to seek treatment for the alcoholism that has been destroying the family for more than twenty years.

I said to her -- the way we do -- "I'll pray for you as you go into this intervention. If I can do anything else to help, let me know." Never imagining for a moment that she would.

Which, reader, is how I found myself involved in two lengthy and detailed preparation meetings and as a participant in an Intervention. Part of me wants to explore and process the experience a little more, for it was intense. Another part of me knows that this blog is most likely not the appropriate venue for such exploration.

I wonder about the coincidence of these events. I wonder what deeper pondering and reflection might reveal.

Know this, though: On Friday night, it was not with my usual casual, non-thinking air that I ordered my pinot noir.