The Slow Burn: A Place to Belong

Belonging: an affinity for a place or situation.

One of the places I found [and still find] solace is in the fellowship of the leaf. But in order to understand why, I need to back it up a bit.

I spent the early years of my life with state-certified caregivers. Eventually, I landed at my grandma’s house. Although I have five sisters and two brothers, I was raised as an only child. Through my grandma’s grit, I made it out of the mud. Not clean. Not easy. Not untouched. I carried hunger in my bones, addiction in my blood. Shame in my pockets. Food, drugs, pornography…they all took turns sitting on the throne. At my worst, I felt like an eccentric misfit. At best, a well-dressed deviant trying to pass for normal.

Addiction is a ruthless ruler. 

Desperate, I turned to the rooms of anonymous programs. Hopeless, the message that any addict can stop using drugs, lose the desire to use, and find a new way to live sounded promising. I heard that “it works if you work it,” so I worked it hard…and I got clean. But after a while, the hopelessness crept back in. Though this time it was different. Quieter. More polite. More spiritual-sounding. Somewhere along the way, I realized I’d traded one ruler for another. Every introduction chipped away at something sacred:

“Hi, I’m Joshua, and I’m an addict.”

Over time, addict stopped being a struggle and started being an identity.

Through immersing myself in works-based gospels (AA, NA, CA), I noticed I exchanged drug addiction for a seemingly less detrimental ruler. In meetings, I felt I surrendered my God-given identity as a son of the Most High with each introduction. Authority abdicated, and power delegated. "Addict" became my identity, and defined by behavior, I gave myself over to programs. Exchanging the grip of addiction for steps, I surrendered to vague pluralistic spirituality. Although I learned wise things in the rooms, and am beyond grateful to programs, vague pluralistic spirituality did not work for me. But that’s a conversation for another day...

So back to cigar culture…I mean, this is a cigar blog after all, not a 12-step meeting. So let’s talk about the leaf.

Back when I started visiting lounges, I was usually the youngest one in the room. Maybe it was due to my lack of a father, but I sought out relationships with the older cats…and I learned quite a bit doing so. Not just about cigars, but about life. How loneliness is heavier than pride. That being alone hurts more, longer, and deeper than the temporary satisfaction of protecting your ego. They taught me certain things don’t deserve the weight we give them. Reputation, for example. Character outlasts it. I learned I’d rather be known than seen.

Chopping it up with veterans over our shared smoke, I learned time does not heal all wounds. That sometimes it just reveals what really matters. That instead of taking opportunities that steal time away from your family, learn how to say “no” if things don’t align with your priorities. I watched how pain turned some men bitter…and others gentle. They carried loss. Regret. Illness. Missed chances. They also carried wedding photos, grandkid stories, retirement plans, passport stamps, and the quiet pride of men who survived themselves.

And the wild thing? They were nothing like me. Entrepreneurs. Janitors. Teachers. CEOs. Warehouse workers. Veterans. Widowers. Nelyweds. All types of people, different worlds at the same table.

Through the tobacco bridge, I met some of my best friends. What started as “What ya smoking,” turned into breaking bread, bible studies, shared vacations, birthday parties, funerals, concerts, and even launching businesses together. When cancer affected their family, we wept together. When marriages fell apart, we prayed for restoration. When an old cat got pneumonia and passed away quickly, we showed up for the family. When a new friend had a stroke, we sent flowers. 

 All of it from dead leaves.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Some prefer to smoke in isolation, away from the distractions of the world. Quiet porch. Good book. No noise. I get it. I love those moments too. But, I still find myself asking:

"Has my life been better because I smoked with others?"

We laugh and bullsh*t with one another. We play pranks and talk trash. A little light-hearted jesting here and there. But past that? If you want it to be…there can be substance. You can be known and know others. There is a strange kind of intimacy hiding in the folds of the leaf - if you're willing to sit long enough for it to show up…. or…you can hang out in online forums trashing whoever smokes whatever. Posting photos of cigars to luxury signal. Maybe even sneak in your timepiece in the background. Spend time just to comment, “AI garbage,” when this was 100% written by a real dude. A gringo with a cigar dream. 

Through it all, cigars keep teaching me that time is the real currency.

They afford me opportunities to connect with people who believe differently from me. And more often than not, I find we’re closer than the world wants us to think. Sure, there are some personalities I enjoy in small doses. That’s for sure. But, at the end of the day…cigar culture helps me practice the mantra of "principles over personalities.” Some say I romanticize dead leaves too much...

But they’ve given me so much life. They gave me a table to sit at. They gave me time that mattered. And somehow, they helped give me life back.