Author: Keith Howard
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What Comes After After?
Dear Hope Nation, Back on March 15, when Hope closed for the first time because of COVID concerns, I started writing daily letters to you. Over the next three months, I wrote 120 letters. If you’re interested, you can find them here on the Hope website. While you’re there, you can also find online meeting lists, the…
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The Next Right Thing
Dear Hope Nation, One more straw. That’s all. The landlord’s note on Jared’s door wasn’t the end of the world. Just one more straw, and Jared didn’t want to be a camel. “Hey Jarod—Rent’s due Wednesday. Today is Thursday. Please see me.” Just a note, but his name was spelled wrong. That was the disrespect. Having lived…
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Actions Leading to Right Thought
December 6, 2020 Dear Hope Nation, I have a lot of wishes. I wish I were five inches taller—making me 5’7”. I wish I looked more like John Cusack and less like Jon Cryar (the dorky brother on “Two-and-a-Half Men.”) I wish I were younger, faster, stronger, more dripping with charisma, etc., etc., etc. Today,…
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Hope Continues
Dear Hope Nation, Hope continues. Hope floats. Hope thrives. Hope is, with apologies to Dylan Thomas, the force that through the fuse drives the flower. The Hope building, though, is closed for now due to the recent increase in COVID-19 cases, hospitalizations and deaths. Hope is not a building. Hope is the connection we have…
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June 5, 2020
Dear Hope Nation, Those of you who have read previous letters, or anyone who’s ever tried to have a conversation with me, recognizes I have a hard time staying focused. Or, more honestly, I can focus like a laser beam until I’m distracted. While I’m a good writer, my narrative style isn’t quite a flow,…
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An Unorthodox Man’s Unorthodox Search for a New Home
About a year and a half ago, I wrote an open letter to the universe regarding my search for my next job. While the universe didn’t directly write back, that column led to an all-expenses paid weeklong trip to New Orleans for a job interview, along with a number of sometimes fascinating phone conversations with…
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A Drunkard’s Dream
This morning a meatball dropped on my head. Translation for the pious: God reminded me of His grace, giving me a vision of myself had I not been lucky enough to get sober 12 years ago. The meatball splattered at about 7:40 am in the lovely seaside town of Whitley Bay, just outside Newcastle. Tomorrow…
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When the ER Nurse Says, “Good Luck” It’s Medical Jargon for “Next Step: The Morgue”
My daughter, Meredith (Meri) Howard overdosed on opioids last Friday. She, unlike thousands of other New Hampshire overdose victims, is alive. Meri is 24 years old, adored by the world (if not always by herself) and had been clean of opioids for more than four years. Her mom, Cindy, discovered her, called 911 and Meri…
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Completely Self-Serving Plug: Improv Theater Training–February 2—Hope for NH Recovery, Manchester, NH
Each millennium brings with it an event so huge it changes the course of human history. The first thousand years anno domini brought us the sack of Rome, with its joyous fires, picturesque streams of blood and a return to home rule. The second millennium’s Black Death helped increase workers’ wages, reduce urban crowding and…
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Shipbuilders of Sunken Vessels: Quick Dispatches from the Belly of the Treatment Industrial System
A confession: although I’ve been clean and sober for 11 years, I didn’t go to a 28-day treatment facility. When I reached the jumping-off point, the spot where suicide made more sense than simply wishing for death, I was lucky enough as a veteran to walk into a VA facility and say, “I’m Keith Howard…
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A Radical Moderate Take on Recreational Marijuana Use
Smoking marijuana is not a revolutionary act. Finally, at 60, I understand this. You see, boys and girls, I started smoking weed in 1972 when I was 13, and the whiff of revolution—at least as defined by Abbie Hoffman and the Yippies—still hung in the air. While I was going door to door for…
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Where There is Life, There is Hope: Rethinking My Notions on Recovery
I am an alcoholic in recovery. Without treatment, an alcoholic of my type is like a medieval town under siege. The military tactic of a siege, of course, is used to cut off all incoming supplies and to prevent escape, and so it was with me. I huddled in my drinking as all other forms…
Tiny White Box--Thoughts on Life, Death, Recovery, and Other Mundane Topics 