A year ago today, I trembled at my bedside.  My hands shook as I took off my nylons after the long holiday festivities.  

Though the words of my alcoholism were never before uttered, they were brewing.  My own paranoia was overwhelming.  I thought for sure the entire family was on to me.  I thought my secrets were spilled, and I was terrified enough to see what would happen if I peeled off my old skin, thin as those old black nylons, and try on my new skin... the kind that would soon grow thick and strong after I uttered the words:  I'm Natasha, and I'm an alcoholic... only hours away.

So while I knew in my heart that these words were true, I did not say them out loud, and I did not say those words in combination with my very own name.  Not yet.  I was fragile and hopeless, tired and sick, worn out and washed away... the stars were not shining, the night was not clear.  Not like tonight.

I found you... here... beneath the bright moonlight.

Then there was hope.

Soon I did say it out loud and my life began new.  My name, Natasha, means Christmas child.  It was meaningless to me for 33 years.

It's not my sobriety date.  But it is the day my new life began here 1 year ago.

I am so grateful to you for being here.  I'm am so grateful for my new life.  I am so grateful to know that this is no coincidence. 

I have been able to understand that the night is more than a dark sky and that the stars not only shine but that the night also dreams with me and I now realize beyond what I see, beyond what I think, because now, I can also understand with the heart.

Peace be with you tonight and always,

Natasha