When I lived in the desert southwest at my alcoholic worst, I was in awe of the weather. Many people laughed at me: “What weather?” Most days, it was hot and that was that. There were countless days where no weather seemed to exist at all — even though it was there: constant and clear. If you had the patience to wander through the arroyos, dry basins and the gulches, if you really got away from the A/C and ventured out into the vast nothingness of the desert — you’d very often be treated to forces of nature that were as unexpected as they were spectacular. Maybe out of nowhere, a one-hundred foot dust devil would suddenly spring up from the sprawl, spinning like a whirling dervish, reaching impossibly higher and higher before vanishing. Sometimes at night, veins of heat lightning would spider through the sky without one trace of thunder. If you weren’t looking, you’d never even know it was happening. Hell, even flash floods routinely disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
The desert is full of secret weather, just like sobriety.
In early recovery, a person is always at the mercy of his or her own internal meteorology: shifting moods, electric fears, regrets that rumble low and deep in the distance. But there’s beauty in that. Revelations can happen. Broken relationships can mend. Promises can be kept. It’s in these moments, I feel, where recovery from drugs and alcohol is at its most affecting. For me, in very early sobriety, my intentions were there even if I wasn’t. In other words, I wasn’t a fully formed person yet. My new identity didn’t have enough railroad track — it was all still being laid out in front of me. And that’s why early sobriety reminds me of virga. I remember watching these monsoon clouds once, black and heavy, moving against the mountains in late August. All around the clouds? Nothing. Just bleached, bone-white sky. But those rogue clouds suddenly let loose these truly epic downpours against the desert. I’d watch the rain, a thin vellum against the sky, as it shimmered toward the ground. And then…nothing.
That’s what “virga” is: rain that never reaches the ground. It evaporates before it has a chance to land.
That’s precisely how I felt in those earliest days and weeks — all those tenuous moments where I didn’t feel like I’d fully beamed aboard the Enterprise transporter pad in one piece. I was full of intentions and hopes and plans, but I didn’t have enough sober time or tools to make anything happen. I was only partway home. I’d eventually arrive, but I needed time before I could actually get somewhere. Virga is about falling toward reality, half-formed. It’s a playlist about the daily struggle to form a real identity after coming out from under the long shadow of addiction. It’s about desperately trying to approach reality, only to find that reality isn’t quite ready to accept you. Some of the songs I’ve selected speak to being half-present in the world; others melodically vanish into themselves or fade away shortly after accomplishing something remarkable. A couple of these are little miracles for existing at all, since they’re beautiful tracks that don’t have homes on a full-length LP. If nothing else, Virga is a playlist about emerging into view, preparing to become whole, and thundering back into life.
You can listen to it by clicking here.
Tracks:
- “New Year,” Over Sands
- “Beginning to Blue,” Still Corners
- “Atoms to Atoms,” Eyes on the Shore
- “Fog Rolls In,” Doombird
- “I Think This Is the Dream Where I Met You,” Miya Folick
- “Patchwork,” Laurie Spiegel
- “Decks Dark,” Radiohead
- “Waking Up,” Mr Little Jeans
- “Half Life,” Twin Shadow
- “Surrender,” Leave the Planet
- “The Black,” VHS Collection
- “If I Should Return,” Marcus Warner
