All posts by Don Miller

About Don Miller

A lifetime Las Vegas resident and father of three grown children, Don spent 15 years as a licensed psychotherapist and speaker in private and hospital practices. Prior, he was part owner of an award-winning family advertising agency. Having fallen into addiction to crystal methamphetamine several years ago, losing everything to the drug, he has been clean since 9/4/11 and more sober about life with each passing day. The stories and content of this site are the accumulating epiphanies of his journey into sobriety, shared here to inspire others, especially those who remain embroiled in addictive battles of their own. LifeMeansSoMuch, the song title by Chris Rice (and you are highly encouraged to download it on ITunes or YouTube,) is the lyrical inspiration for the content of this site. Don is currently a life coach, author, speaker and manager at a non-profit, HopeLink of Southern Nevada.

the power of a pause

If I was a younger man, I would use more commas than exclamation points, make pregnant pauses mean something more in conversation and ponder longer the silent moments I was dealt.

If I was a younger man, I would take up causes that mattered most, view my future the least and risk much more for what I believed.

If I was a younger man, my contemplations would be richer, reflections clearer, and conversations more indelible.

As a younger man I would spend more time writing poetry, longer notes on greeting cards, and make more calls to those I love for no particular reason at all.

My friends would be closer, my enemies further, and my heart much softer as a younger man. I would listen to older men more, memorize better quotations, create more memories, and remember more of what was most important.

Everything I’d do would be taken down a notch or two, time would be much more precious, and life would boil down to a single purpose. And I would do it today instead of tomorrow, look at the big picture,
and take more snapshots on the way.

The clock would pale in significance and my “I” would be much less important than my “you.”

As a younger man, my gains would be more intangible, my virtues more apparent, and my focus more intense. I’d play more, give more,
and say more thank you’s to complete strangers for their unacknowledged acts of valor.

I would pet more puppies, take longer walks, and pause a few more times to see smaller things around me in bigger ways. And I wouldn’t be afraid to cry.

I would be an older soul in a younger body, chasing more inventions, reading more genres,
and blazing more trails for younger men to follow.

I would scour the dictionary for just the right word, enter more contests, and share more of my winnings with strangers.

I would edit less, listen more, and use smaller words to say the same things to more people so they could understand the wisdom of men much older than them.

And maybe then, the younger men would see the value of using commas more, exclamation points less, and the perfect power of a pause.

Meanwhile, behind the stone…

Meanwhile, behind the stone…

Hey, wake up.
-Hi, I can’t sleep.
So let’s talk about tomorrow.
-Can’t you see I’m a little wrapped up right now?
I can’t see a thing, it’s pitch black in here.
-Well get your glow on, Dad. Do that On The First Day thing again.
That’s better. Oh.My.Me! What in heaven’s name have they done to you!?
-Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.
Oh mercy, you need a shower. Let’s get you back to normal.
-Dad, here on out, things aren’t gonna be very normal anymore.
Oh yeah, tomorrow’s Our big day.
-Yeah, everyone’s.
Here’s a new outfit. Mary will be here sooner than We think.
-Right, then all hell breaks loose, and you-know-who’s gonna be mad for all eternity.
Yeah, We fixed that. He’s toast. Literally.
-Okay, I’m up. Let’s get busy.
Aren’t you eggcited about tomorrow?!
-Daaaad!

(To be continued)

8 minutes.

sun

And while you’re sitting there wondering how to spend the elapse of your final few living minutes, the ending world begs you for a soliloquy of your contribution. 8 minutes. All the time it takes for our Sun’s light and heat to cease reaching Earth, time ending to begin the dark unknown for some and the hope of all time for others. No time to scramble home for a last hug, a final fling or to get your affairs in order. Affairs are over. The only time standing between you and eternal rejoice or regret is 8 minutes of mirrored, solo reflection that will be no more when the light goes out. And I ask again, how will you spend your 8?

 

It’s Quitting Time.

I’m liking not stinking
And each hour not thinking
I need to step out for a bit.
Now my life has no flame
And it’s no longer a shame
Cuz I’m really too smart for this shit.

I’m enjoying my breathing
Without all the wheezing
And sleeping much better too.
Sure  liking the $avings
Without all the cravings
And the cash I’d been going through.

Just got tired of choking
On the brand I was smoking
And finally said enough is enough.
It’s been several weeks
And my longest of streaks
And it’s nice to be out of the rough.

One day at a time’s
Been a bit of a climb
But I’m happier without the puff.
To my friends who’re still smoking
Slowly dying and croaking
Put it out, put it down, get tough!

find it funny

Whether naked or afraid
In the most desolate of places
In the loneliest of moments
Or the darkest of spaces

Not a penny to your name
Nor a coat on your back
Not a crumb in your stomach
Nor a morsel to snack

Closest to death
And the end now in sight
On your last breath
And losing the fight

It matters not time
It matters not place
You can always find humor
And a smile on your face.

to the tune of My Favorite Things

Spiders, clown faces,
And bridges collapsing.
Burglars who break in on you
While you’re napping.
Slivers and big dogs who
Foam at the mouth,
These kinds of fears turn anxieties south.
 
Zombies and barfing
Free falls from high places,
Tornadoes, lightning and
Tightly closed spaces,
Birds that attack and
All things that sting,
These are a few of our scariest things.
 
When there’s alley fights,
Entries with no lights,
When you’re home alone,
These are a few of the scariest things,
And fears of the great unknown.
 
IRS letters and CPS knocking
Nightmares of falling
And empty chairs rocking,
Faces in windows when you’re in the shower
I can think up most anything scary at this hour.
 
(reprise Chorus)

Surely Shirley

Surely Shirley.
I felt bad when she left, but we both understood.
When your on-paper budget shows you have an unallocated surplus of around $120/mo, I can’t justify paying for your eyeglasses as I’m accustomed to doing for so many dirt poor 80somethings I see each week. She’s frugal, that’s for sure. Doesn’t fritter away portions of her small income on gambling, drinking, smoking, cable channels or other luxuries. Even does her own hair and nails. I showed her how on her small social security income, she can save around a hundred bucks a month if she adopts the budget plan from our meeting today.
She walked in thinking she’d walk out with a deal to pay for a new pair of glasses. But she got much more. She left with insight and pride knowing she actually doesn’t need help but can easily buy her own glasses within the next month. Today that light bulb made all the difference in the world to Shirley, and she was more pleased to know she can be self-sufficient instead of dependent.
“Shirley, I really wanted to pay for those glasses for you,” I said as we walked down the hall from my office. She stopped me with her pointer finger. “Don’t, it’s okay. Since my husband passed, nobody has ever taken the time to show me how to budget or save in so many areas I never knew I could. I may be walking out without the glasses but you made me feel like a million bucks knowing I’ll be able to pay for them myself because of what you showed me. And where I come from, that’s how I was raised, and how I raised my own children.
We meet again one month from today to place her order online.

 

chased by a red light

I didn’t have it in me to take even one more call.
I was on my 13th hour of the workweek’s final day, fueled by only a 20 minute sandwich and that flashing red light on my phone kept blinking. It was already after five when I mistook it for a stoplight from God at the intersection of a long day. I’d earned my drive home, dinner with my dog and what’s lately been more like a short winter’s naps than good nights of sleep. But it’s my weekend.

After my Monday morning hot shower and shave, sporting a topcoat the length of which was destined to rival the day ahead in this business of keeping poor people housed and fed with the lights on, the red flashing light would surely still be there for me this morning along with a dozen other calls from the unfortunate many.

502am at the office, I turned on the coffee and tended to my opening routine down the dark hall, passing my office doorway where the room was still illuminated red from the tiny light on my phone that had begged an answer all weekend but for which I’d not had the time.
Coffee in hand, I listened.
A 74 year old man had just watched his home, bed and a backseat of possessions be towed from a nearby parking lot and he needed a place to sleep for the night, some transportation, and a little hope.

There are times I question the very things I have come to believe I deserve.

This business of flashing red lights can eat you alive and spit your heart out one day with no shred of mercy in the morning.
It’s 511am and I’m on the phone trying to reach that cold old man from last week, a little forgiveness, and personal redemption for what will be another thankless day, but very strangely worth every moment.

immortal

Strokes on a canvas
Words paragraphed
A scurrying cursor
Or notes on a staff.

Some do it in color
Some do it in ink
In every medium
Whatever they think.

Art is our freedom
The song in our skies
Immortal creations
Art never dies.

not bad at all if you ask me

Truth is, you get used to it.
It takes some time, but living single and alone grows on you.
You chew your food better for lack of dinner conversation.
You sleep longer alone without a chatty someone stealing the covers, cuddling, or wanting something more.
You save money not buying silly flowers or something special for no one special for no special reason.
You learn to be self-sufficient when sick, make your own soup and get your own toilet paper.
You stop worrying about dying alone, just dying, and you gradually forget what it used to be like.
The sad silly truth is you get used to being single and alone.
It grows on you like a prolonged annihilation of everything that might have been, drawing your heart, mind and soul closer to all the good things that actually are.