Home Depot in Kona, Hawai'i sells banana trees. An American nationwide corporate chain having local product. For $25 I bought the tree in September and in April now, seven months into growing strong, the tree is a few feet from the walkway into our house. Surprise is that you can prune banana trees and I have cut 20 or more wide and long brilliant sunshine-green leaves since planting. In the Home Depot plastic bucket she stood two feet or so when purchased, and now stands six feet tall having been cared for, prayed over, soothed in my singsong, and fertilized—mostly coffee grounds sprinkled from a kitchen counter bowl where I save them.

Every fourth or fifth late-evening, in sound asleep 2 to 4 a.m. zones for humans, the feral pigs arrive to the garden especially the banana tree. Hawai'i is inundated with jet black pigs, hides and hairs like steel bristles. Fair enough they exist on the land, too. Around the banana tree a trench is dug when the pigs search for worms, healthy soil, and other delectables to increase their nutrition intake. I get that.

And each time I repile the soil, tidying up the mess. The point I am making is that in seven months the banana tree has tripled her growth despite the perceived obstacle that pigs rooting close to the core growth might do harm. On some level I am sure harm happening is true, and, still, the growth.

In recovery circles, where we often care, pray, soothe, singsong, and fertilize each others' growth, we can also be obstacles. Contrarians exist and recovery circles are not exempt. And still we grow. When we wonder why recovery circles, especially for alcoholism, that began in the late 1930s are as strong as ever in 2024 this is a principle reason why. The nudges, usually positive and sometimes obstacle, yet we continue in the serenity lane, which is the goal—sober and free.

One day in August 2023 I stared one hundred or so feet above me. Standing in a macadamia nut orchard, maybe 80 trees planted 30 or 40 years ago, I could not see the actual tree. A vine, familiar to Hawai'i wildness, had overtaken the mac tree. As the tree caregiver, I was asked to remove the vine. Impossible, I thought. And kept the idea to myself. Eventually after a tour of the entire four acres, I asked if this one tree might be cut down, irreparable damage the vine appeared to have done. No visibility of the mac tree was seen given wide vine leaves spanning two feet across, four feet long.

Yet I was hired to work and so follow instructions I do (a key recovery tool, or getting back to basics in life after significant addiction). Relying on basic pruning loppers, I peeled back the vine at the tree's base. And cut and slashed and loppered all around the mac nut tree. Drifting to tend the other trees, I returned a few months later to continue the vine removal process, again. Incremental nudging attempts to give the mac tree a chance, free from vine obstacles.

Maybe seven months later I went back to this exact tree and looked up. In the canopy of this mac nut tree was her original foliage, recovered. Not exactly a fully restored tree, but obviously a returned to life functioning one. Recovery works like this. We never know who we will see seven months down the road after we remove obstacles to growth. Imagine if the tree had been removed altogether.

Several days ago Friday evening I went camping. Kapa'a Beach is a few miles from where I live. Hawai'i residents have the gifted grace to camp for $5 and I find the respite restorative. Gathering a few rocks, I made a campfire ring to burn a few keawe twigs. Minimal impact on the area where I parked my car maybe 20 or 30 feet from the ocean, for this campsite is that close. The air was thick with a humid mist or lightly drizzling rain and smelled faintly ocean salty, mostly sweet from the tall grasses growing nearby. From moment to moment, a smiling crescent moon peered brightly from behind darker clouds and gave the ocean a flickering flashlight effect so bright the ricochet lighting.

Around 10 p.m. I called the day done and went to sleep. One cozy hatchback car I drive and I value the air mattress, a few warm blankets, and an open door for cooler night breezes to provide one of the better night's sleep around. Around 2 : 30 a.m. a guy had a bright white flashing into my sleeping zone, asking, “Can you call the cops?”

I leaned forward quickly and shouted, “What?”

He repeated his request and I replied with a firm no. He went for the stretch. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Again my snarly no was shared with him. He sat at the campground picnic bench a few feet from where I slept and worked industriously on nothing with the bright light on. Returning to cozy sleep is now gone.

Especially thin, mumbling to himself, I applied one of my recovery tools and that is to meet him where he is at. I got out of my car around 3 a.m. and went to the glove compartment.

“Would you like a smoke?” I hollered to him.

“Sure!” he said and we sat together in front of the ocean, the waves steady and relentless and beautiful. Meth, I thought to myself. Or perhaps a modern drug I simply have no idea what. Yet human we have and in need of a nudge, the kindness type.

We smoked our cigarettes and made small talk. When I asked him his name he had two first names strung together, each the first name of women I used to know. Which made me laugh and I wondered if he had been sent intentionally. You never know what obstacles might be perceived as helpful in recovery circles.

He asked if I had food. And on a selfish track that I was hoping to return to sleep, I made a bargain.

“How about if I cook you a bowl of ramen and then you are on your way?”

He said ok and sounded doubtful. Would I follow through? Trust is nearly absent while still using. Getting my easy to go camping stove, I heated the water and he was enjoying a delicious bowl of Tonkatsu within a few minutes. His entire attitude changed, calmer not jittery and maybe a nudge of hope in there.

“We had our deal and I'm going to sleep now,” I kindly scolded.

He got quiet and said, “I'm not going to rob you.”

And he certainly could have because this is a rural campground and nobody is around. “I trust you and I am not worried. Just sleepy. How about our deal?”

He seemed rewarded by the positive words and food and on his way he went. He kept his word and I slept in late the next morning. If I had ignored him, his need for care would have escalated. If I had lectured him for being a strung out druggie, he would have probably robbed me. Instead, I brought him the care and feeding that are often the two best tools in addiction recovery.

Several years ago in this rural Hawai'i locale where I have lived for six years, I smelled automobile smoke originating in the car I drive daily. The first day I relied on my easy-go-lucky energy and ignored the scent. Only a light waft, I self-coached myself through denial. Day two I talked to her, she having been named Mauna Kea because of the white paint and the mountain's white snow cap, and the car needs maintenance but simply never breaks down, a mountain of service she has been.

At the end of day two, a few worry bubbles float into my consciousness and yet I drive on. In the middle of day three, a distinct plume of oily black smoke pours from the engine. Way back on a farm in even further rural Hawai'i, I pull the car over and open the hood. In recovery and normie circles (identify as you need), delaying response time to mystery car sounds and smells is oh so human.

Somebody has decided that removing the oil cap might be fun. At my wit's end as to the purpose and meaning, I say to an old codger who has exited the forest behind me, looking not too unlike Yoda from Star Wars—same wisdom grin—that I can't believe this random act of unkindness. Why? He seemed ready to bring a lecture and yet saw my real angst. Already I was leaving the why zone and returning to recovery's how—honesty, openmindedness, and willingness. How serious is the problem? Not much, really. A new cap costs $5 and I had one fit snug within a few hours.

HOW helpful and healthy is this mindset to activate during days when feral pigs, tropical wild vines, a strung out yet fair junkie, and a missing oil cap appear as zones of decision making. What will I do based on recovery principles? At the end of the day, my living-life work is the reaction business—not the actual results. Some days are smoother flow than others. The wise codger told me in that moment, “Do the best you can.” True words those. And more than a few days in a row I go there.

*Update: Minimal fencing added around banana tree just last weekend. That's what we call boundaries in recovery. You have heard of those, I imagine.