February 17

PIGS

“Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.”


Talking to a chrysalis about flight is like talking to a fetus about dry land. Descriptions of future events and possibility are lost in the translation. To the uninitiated, these realities sound like gibberish and flights of fancy or foolish dogma. Yet, I am drawn to talk of these things, imagine and describe them. I am changed by this procedure. I am transformed in the details. When I can accurately depict it, I am taking the stride into living it. I am my own pig. I have taught myself to sing and have wasted no time at all.


List your favorites so you don’t forget yourself.




*
Suzy Q’s Mother
Through process of elimination
I have had to learn who G-d is and who G-d isn’t.
When it comes down to my understanding
everything incomprehensible is off the table
and what is left is mine, all mine.
I can’t fathom an all powerful G-d;
therefore my G-d is not all powerful.
I cannot begin to comprehend a vengeful G-d,
as you might have guessed; my G-d is not vengeful.
Because of these constraints I have
a non-omnipotent G-d, one with limitations and bounds.
This doesn’t mean I love my G-d any less
in fact it may be why I love my G-d so very much.
And G-d loves me with a Mother love
that trails me to the depths and heights of the path,
but like any mother, she can’t do everything.
My G-d is accomplished and wonderful,
but there are days that I need things,
which lay outside my Higher Power’s area of expertise
and I must turn to help beyond our little circle of two.
This is not easy at first.
We both feel awkward in the attempt,
but Suzy Q lives two houses down
Her mother still has her hook shot from college
and since my mom’s experience of basketball
is that it’s the court you walk through to go play tennis,
I ask Mrs. Q with help making the three point shots.
I don’t have to understand Suzy Q’s mother,
I leave that to Suzy.

I just have to ask for help,
learn the jump and go home when I’m done.
It’s nice to be able to slam dunk,
but there is no place like home.

This is going to be a tough time as you well know , I suggest if you dont mind, drink lots of water it really does help get the crap out of your body I tell the guys the same thing before and after surgery it helps get all the crap out of your system, also SLEEP your body needs to heal it needs some TLC from you!
Be nice to your self and be patient!
you are doing great ya only need to worry about today not tomorrow or yeserday just today!

Just going to throw out some random thoughts.. things I have picked up on my journey..

"If you don't take of your business, your business will take care or you."

"Get out of your own way" "Leave yourself alone."

I know for me, rearranging my home helped . I drank in the same spot, in the same room, looking at the same pictures on the same wall. I had to change the view.. "nothing changes, if nothing changes. :chaplin:

February 18

THIN ICE




The ice is brittle, transparent and breaking away. I brace for destruction, turmoil and frigid descent. I am stuck in my topside thinking and can not realize the chance for freedom the cracking expanse promises. I am an oceanic creature. I can escape my watery bonds with the splitting of the ice. Trapped in a hole I keep open only through the friction of my unrest, I am kept from the community of life to which I belong. My reflection mixes with my view of the sky and I forget my place, forget my name, forget how I have come to be trapped here. The pining after what is not mine to have has brought me to this thin edge. I must break through to be who I am; in doing so I shatter the illusion of who I thought I was. Zeal to zenith I must move away from the phantasm and mockery and take refuge in what I am.


Remember your genius.

*

Hiding
“Defeat is what you make of it,” says my sponsor.
“Fighting a thousand secret battles
when you claim that you want peace is not right.
The agony of defeat is when you keep on fighting.
There is no honor in waving the white flag,
but never laying down your arms.”
“I can’t just give them up
they have been in the family for years,”
my whining retort.
“I’m sure they have, darling, I’m sure they have,
and haven’t done any of you a lick of good either,”
her smug reply.

“They are good for sabotage,”
I begin my running start at her.
“Sabotage is something you only do to yourself,
because who else can you really sabotage?
Who do you really hate enough other than you?”
“My hobby is denying that you know.”
“Yes, and sweet lot of good it does you,

The war rages within you
and outside you say it’s harmony,
no matter all the signs of discord.”

“And if I were to really give up. If, I were really tired enough,
how can I insure my safety?”
I asked with my hands nearly in the air.

“Tell the truth, even if it’s only to yourself.
Put space between you and weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, and make sure you surrender to a friend.”

February 19

LIFE IS UNFAIR




Assuring myself I will not be permitted through the gate, I walk the perimeter, assessing the fence, looking for a place to exploit, a wire slightly high. Trying to look graceful, I duck under the fence, telling myself I prefer life on the edge. The water is less dangerous here on the fringe; I wouldn’t want to be swept away. I stay clear of my peers. I stand in the baby pool and feel confident I won’t drown, brushing from my conscience that I won’t swim either.
Struggling to the top of the pile or scurrying underneath is a blatant lack of humility. Skirting the margin is the same. Facing life and finding it unfair, I take to the world of exception and hope to slip through the cracks to a life of safety. In that act I discount my talent and ability. Worst of all, I disconnect from God.


Toy with your thoughts, play with your food.
*


Jenny

Though ignorance may be bliss,
living in the shadow of someone else’s
ignorance is sheer hell.
The confusion is bad, but the lies are worse.

Want to cripple a child for life
give it to a well meaning fool
who has the rule book to the wrong board game,

That child will grow to need crutches they don’t make
and medicine they can’t brew.
Dependent on misguided insanity the child will require
a miracle cure and may lack the ability to ingest it.

Best case scenario the kid makes a brave escape
into a world she can barely comprehend,
worse case she turns the rule book upside down
and reads it backwards to her own unfortunate brood.

Ignorance is always a twilight proposition,
half agreement the other half handcuffed nightmare.
Full consent is by necessity impossible
while blameless innocents is similarly unachievable.

The only suggestion I can make
from this side of the looking glass
is to pick your poison and plan your getaway.

February 20

TIME IS HERE TO STAY





I have passed my days emptying them like breadcrumbs onto a trail of rescue. Expecting them to facilitate redemption, and if not that, at least retreat, I release an audible sigh as I let each evening slip to the path behind me. The future I view as a cliff I am nearing. I hope to be ransomed before the edge. I plan carefully how to stay in sync with revision; things must be resolved and revert. But this is not the way. The past is there to be mined. Inert gold, as well as land mines, lingers beneath the surface; the days stream on. I am not nearing the limit; I am shrinking from hope. I turn my eyes from expectancy with a shudder. Deeply, I realize I must leave my fairytale life and walk away with my days in my pocket, a treasure that is mine to spend.


Tie a string around your hopes then let them go.


*

Katie’s Wish


Does G-d arrange for my parking spot,
foil the Colts opponents,
release the stains from my dry-cleaning?
Can I ask for the petty and pedantic?

All One G-d Faith,
reads the side of the soap bottle,
but really is there only one?

Like Santa? The Tooth Fairy? OZ?
Is my life better or worse for the whimsy?
How would I know? Why would I care?

As long as I live with what I get most times,
it truly is okay to ask for what I want sometimes,
I mean hell, the Superbowl is only once a year.
I’m allowed to be unreasonable and happy.

February 21

THE TEAM



The dream sobriety I envision, the fantasy recovery I mentally construct, blows out to sea as so much mist in the face of actual life. Setting out sports teams, which don’t exist, is playful and entertaining. Trying to rebuild the principals of the program is a delusion I can drink over. Finessing my network, and pretending I can put together my team on a basis of specialized talents instead of ground level willingness, is like designing a plane without regard to physics, playing only to aesthetics. Anytime I am redesigning I must realize I am no longer participating. If I keep my head in the game, I can stay away from statistics and stop planning outcomes.


Shade your life from undo exposure.
*

Word Comprehension


There were scads and scores of words
that I had at my command.
I could command them that was a fact;
comprehend them that was an illusion.

My sponsor had every confidence in me
and started my word comprehension lessons
with the tough ones first:
“No,” she would ask,
“What don’t you understand the Nnnnnn part
or the OHhhhhh part?”
Took me sometime to catch on to words deep as that.

Serenity that I learned through living Braille.
Learned it like any hungry child, by taste.
Learned it like learning the ocean as you swim in it.
Serenity is my ballast and my bail,

As for peace, all I can say is:
No comprehension, no peace;
know comprehension, know peace.

I am so delighted!! Day 22, such a wonderful number!!!

What the hell are they having you write about Munich??? Sounds like this thing is quite a twist in the knickers for you. I wish you happy pancake day! and ease with your writing.

I had a very brave day yesterday, maybe today is your day. I made my first book digitally available, I have been stalled on this for a very long time, but yesterday it all came together and I got the notification this morning that it all worked!

Hugs,

Sherrie

February 22

SAFETY IN MY CHAIR



Sometimes I have to sit with my knees tucked up under my chin. My feet can’t touch the floor at these moments. I hug my legs to me, I feel contained but somehow adrift in my chair. I center my mind on breath and pulse. Pure fear flits and flutters while I gain my composure. When I feel safe enough to put one foot down, then the other, and connect with the world again, I am leaving home to embark on this earthly trek. The journey is there for me every day but some days I curl up in my chair.


Complement your feet with your shoes.


*

Patricide

I never killed my father.
Why finish a job that
someone is completing all on his own.

It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead;
I did and do for that matter.
Don’t misunderstand me,
I wish him no harm,

It’s just that he is like a creature so tortured
that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.
Left to live he is a hazard to everyone
he has contact with, an agony to live inside.

What can I wish for him,
but departure and rest,
something he can never give to himself.

I don’t plot, don’t scheme,
I only know; know in part,
the terrible lie he lives
and hurt he drags from place to place

Acting like it is not there and nothing matters;
let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be.

He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god
and I don’t kill that man
but I kill the image, perish that thought.

Rocking
 

Thanks for always writing just right.


Sitting in my rocker for the day may be just the thing I need.
Life and death at my door, the old and the new, memories, and the feeling that I am living on the edge of my seat. I step off not knowing what the next dive bombing bird will drop in front of me, on me, or just leave pinned to my door.

FedEx notice taped on my window. "Needs signature. Will leave on Porch. FedEx will not be responsible for lost or damaged..etc.etc.." If I stay home from work and sit in my rocker, the package will be safe, but will I.

For today, oatmeal and almonds, oranges and java, and going to work will take getting out of my chair. A presentation to 70 big business strangers this afternoon about what they must to do to stay out of trouble :police:, their opine and displeasure to follow~~ and I will be thinking about my feet off the floor, curling up safely at home.

Sober and clean one more day. and maybe a FedEx surprise when I return.

Have a good day everyone, and thanks for keeping the light on.

Tommi

February 23

COMING TO THE TABLE



For many years, decades even, I stacked the table against myself and others. I piled the sacred next to trifles; I deposited item after item and built towers to confusion. After years of sobriety, I sorted the piles in earnest. I made a place for myself at the table. It is amazing what I can accomplish with a seat and a surface. Over months, tediously separating the needed from the useless, I made a place for others at the table. There is a whole world of life I had missed while trying to keep myself safe from unrealistic expectations---expectations of who I am and what I can do, what I should do and who I should do it for.
Having strong boundaries and a clean table is like a homecoming. I am coming home to me. The good games and happy meals had at this table are unexpected and surely welcome. The wall I built held good times at bay because I could not keep the flood of trash from spilling in from every direction. I had to learn to hold my head up before I could look around.


Invent a new language to talk to yourself in.
*

Ace

Like an ace in my pocket
step one is the beginning
and end of my step work.

This step carries the high and low count;
its rise is so near to the ground
I didn’t have to lift my chin to clear it
as I crawled my way in here,

Its appeal so exalted that it is all I hear
when I finish the twelfth
and am on my way back around.
the high and low of any hand.

Plus the card I keep up my sleeve for emergencies.
The greatest blessing is I don’t need four of a kind,
not even a pair; as long as I have step one.

I am guaranteed a full house, full heart and full life
between you and me that’s just how I like it.

Day 24 9.55pm

Feeling even more crap. Resentment and anger building. Palpitations. Addiction monster being fed by negative emotions. Judged and judging. Feeling like I've just found another place I don't fit into the ready-prepared little box they have for me.

In reality, I know I'm having a bad couple of days and that this too shall pass. It's the first really bad head-space since the day I started detox meds. I have a NA member from tonight's meeting phoning me later. I shared one-to-one what I'd said last night and most of what I was feeling.

Someone posted in one of the threads I saw this morning that when life throws you limes make margaritas. I wish but I won't. Oddly this sort of crap doesn't make me want to drink because I know it won't make it better, infact it would make it a whole lot worse. Relief would be temporary.

So, you have my sick thinking stream of consciousness. Take it how you will.

My name is Scooby and I'm an alcoholic. For today I'm relieved, over-joyed and so very grateful to be sober despite myself.

:hangloose:

https://cdn2.content.compendiumblog....cts_in_box.JPG

Don't you just hate when the box is too small? I sure do! Hope you feel better soon! hugs Sherrie

February 24

DOMINOES




What happens to the dominoes that do not fall, the show cut short by my sobriety? The tiles stand front to back; the least foul respiration will send them to their preordained destination. I hold my breath as I glance over the display of generations. The design is set. Painstaking patterns lain with meticulous, ingenious deft. Skill for falling, laying waste. Sad pictures told and retold in speedy drops. The rhythmic fall of dominoes turning eight blocks to a corner. Direction shifts but the descending continues. I can not occupy this ground. I must not upset the arrangement. I can not clear it from this world. I must walk away from the upright mosaic, a flower waiting to bloom with destruction. I have to move. Climb the steep slopes. Vertical life, leaving the tumbling destruction for Yet. Grasping the sides of the cliffs, I haul myself off the tableland, a place set for a show of lying down. I build my strength and keep off the well-known flats. This is a life apart. The game is there if I return. It is a game no one can win.


Carry yourself.


*


Over Troubled Water

Though God might be everything,
for a long time God was a resident
of an unknown country;
a theoretical citizen of a theoretical land.
It took some time for me to spy yon distant country
and longer to realize what a miracle it was
that I could see my neighbor,
holding my optics turned around the way they were.

Turning over the binoculars came long before
introductions or interaction, but it was an important step
in relationship building nonetheless.

Having seen the island my mind fled
due to the trumped up stories about its resident.
Open minded observation cleared up the fallacies
of ogres and super heroes,

But this only told me who God wasn’t
and nothing of who God is.
Direct knowledge was going to require direct contact.

I began throwing tethered balls of string
across the channel that separates us
and was shocked, delighted, horrified
to find that the far end would get tied to the far shore.

I threw twine next, then rope,
after a few successful repetitions
I was able to shinny across for the first time.

Filled with fear and trepidation
I arrived on the opposing bank
and stood shivering more from nerves than cold.

I saw no one and felt much.
I didn’t stay long and swam back.

The first plank bridge was simple and straight.
Having this link somehow emboldened me
to explore the land of my own country.
With great regularity I found narrow margins.

I crafted a new bridge for each slender passage.
The more I learn about me
the more regular my connection to that inner land.

Like something shy of my wrath,
God made an illusive sight.
The more I calmed the more often the sightings.

We made acquaintance and then we made friends.
I’ve widened some bridges and God has widened others.
We stroll together often hand in hand.
We talk and laugh, cry and joke.

Occupancy is fluid, times I live on the island
and others the surrounding continent
sometimes we live together
other times we are one another’s quests.

All the days are not happy ones
but we are always happy to be together
and more than that I will not ask.

February 25

SOD



Green and black, pinwheels of rolled grass speed by me on a flatbed. Sod headed for home. That is how it is for me. I grew in a place of impermanence, a place clearly not my destination. Uprooted and prepared for relocation, I am in transition. My future surroundings, unknown, will be a perfect fit. I have been anticipated, grown for a purpose, of which I am uninformed. I have done my part. I am ready to lay down my roots and become a lawn of seamless expanse. Somewhere my Higher Power is grading a hill, smoothing the way. I am ready to take my place in the landscape of sober living and right thinking.


Advocate for the sweetness inside you.
*
Cured



Ham is cured.
Thank God I’m not ham.
Ham likes to be the center of attention.
Thank God, I’m not ham.

I can’t be the worker among workers
if I believe I don’t need to work.
I can’t be a friend among friends
if I am an island or a precipice,
above or away from the need or reach of others.

Cured is a one way street
that leads to a dried up lonely end.
Just the same way that turning my cucumber
into a pickle took me out of the garden,

Curing takes me away
from the only home I know, recovery.
Though I am often raw and sometimes fresh,
these I can survive,

Finished due to the drying out process
that would be a living death.
Thank God I’m not cured.

February 26

TOP



The chipped paint of the red stripe gives the illusion of fading to rose as it spins. The edge, painted with green, thalo in its intensity, reflects the windows of the room. The bead, purple and gleaming, affixed to the stem, holds the cuff with its two apposed openings, the cord recoiled inside. Underneath, protected from easy observation, resides the point, lathed and faultless. The turning weight is carried and balanced perfectly on this nib. The hum, spiraling and melodic, comes from the table as well as the top, the epitome of form and function, grace and harmony. In spite of it all, the only thing that truly matters is who pulls the string.


Be polite to your dreams.

*


Exceptance


“I want God’s will for me,”
I sigh to my sponsor.

“Except for this and except for that,”
is her trig response.
She knows me, knows I have exceptance.

“You have a list of exclusions,
a list that dams up the works.”
“Well, trust is hard,” I splutter.
“Trust is not the issue here,” says she.

“You don’t feel acceptable
and exceptance is what follows.”
“Whatever could you mean?”
my broken bluster leaving only this plaintive whine.

“You believe you’re not good enough
for God or anyone
and cross everything off the list
in an attempt to duck blame
or shame or some other nasty thing.

You are good enough kiddo,
get that and everything else is good enough, too.
At least good enough for now
and now is all we have. Accept that.”

February 27

BELIEVE



Listening to what people say is a half waste of time; believing it is a full waste of time. Truth wills out in behavior. No matter what is said, what is done is the real deal. What is done over time is the final test and the things which are repeated, resounding from one generation to the next, are to be counted on. Believing in told truths is a snare and delusion, the trap of all traps.
If your sponsor has a sponsor you may sleep at night. If your sponsor works with that sponsor you can sleep soundly. Doing the right things, doing them over and over again, doing them with others, your group, your friends, your sponsees, will make you believable. I can think of nothing else that will.


Tickle your age and laugh with it.
*

The Resentment of an Acorn


Because no one believed
that I was a giant oak inside,
I had to prove it and drop my little cap
and leave my shell behind.

Now I stand big and tall,
alone, board feet to the sky.
I have lost my portability in my quest
for the recognition of my potential.

My amazing growth painful due to its cause;
poor mental health is a bitter road to achievement.
As I stand head and shoulders
above the undulating canopy
reflection comes on a sweet breeze.

Am I sorry I’m here, it could have been worse,
could have been eaten by a squirrel
or glued endlessly to a third-grade art project
“my walk through the woods”

Bugs could have gotten me,
though that looms even now.
I could have disintegrated, lost my power and integrity.

Whatever the driver I am appreciative of the destination,
there were many darker roads on that map.
It’s good to be here. I
It’s good to be anywhere sober.

February 28

ONE IN A THOUSAND



“Did they tell you the odds when you came in?” asked my sponsor.
“Yes. One in thirty makes it to the rooms. One in thirty of those stays for five years. One in a thousand gets truly sober and is catapulted to another dimension." I responded.
“What was your response to that?”
“Well, I showed the proper amount of surprise and said, ‘Oh, my.’”
“Yes. What did you think inside?”
“I thought. ' Climb with me or I’ll climb over you.’ Not very spiritual is it?”
“It worked. You’re still sober; a lot of folks aren’t. The company you keep is sober. There is nothing less spiritual than being drunk,” said my sponsor.
“Is that why it’s called a selfish program?" I ask.
“I don’t know. It seems to me sobriety is a gift you give to the world.”
“But I give it to myself.”
“Can’t give a gift you don’t have in your possession.”
“Point taken.”


Do what you can and try the rest.

*

Adjustment


The chase is on, round and round it goes
and where it stops no one knows.
I run after control and change as I grasp,
but can never quite get my fingers
wrapped around the thing.

An open fist is an adjustment;
no fist at all would be a feat.
The fool’s errand I send myself on brings suffering;
there would be suffering anyhow,

I feel I am the cause due to my attempt to avoid it;
another backhanded attempt at the illusion,
the goal, control.

Adjusting to reality is at first freefall;
rarely do I get to second.
The shape taken by the shift in my gears
to no gears at all dilates my pupils and the rest is white.

If the colors come back I don’t know when.
If the ground beneath me returns I don’t know how.
I am blinded by the light and can only follow the sound.

February 29

YARD BOAT


Early in my life, I lived in a gated yacht club, the canal passing in front of my home. I had no boat. I didn’t know how to sail. I had not a thought of learning.
In later years, I learned to sail. I covered the water in choppy tacks and prayed for safe returns to shore. Those were the years with a yard boat. Covered in a tarp, the blue sided craft sat dry, the sun and wind taking their toll. The vessel stayed on the trailer waiting to be towed to the reservoir where it would fill, water leaking in from every joint; I would bail and sail with all my heart.
Timing has never been my strong suit; rare are the times when all the ingredients come together in my life. I have used this as an excuse to feel like a failure. I have used it to blame and dismiss God. I have used it to avoid pursuit of opportunities. I have averted my attention from the satisfactions of all the pieces in my life. Living on the water is a pleasure, and stolen moments, tacking in the basin of round valley, an equal joy. Happiness with what I have makes more a surprise, not a necessity.


Allow yourself private joy and public sorrow then reverse it.
*

Pucker Up


The gifts I never expected,
never knew I needed,
never imagined wanting,
arrive wrapped in fretful apprehension
more often than not.

“Who knew?” I ask myself
standing swathed in a skin
I never realized I owned.

My identity has been handed to me
an article at a time,
each item less likely than the last.

Do they fit, yes of course,
fit as if they were made for me,
fit because they are me.

My inability to recognize myself
is a stumbling block;
my willingness to try is my salvation.

Though there are times when
a kiss is just a kiss,
there are other times when a kiss
can change the whole world.

Leap Day. I swam and swam all over the damn...place
 

Seems to me that 5 months is far too long, the water is so good for you! I hope you have a great day!

March 1

WANTING


“Wanting to be alive is not as important as wanting to do right," said my sponsor.
“I don’t want to be here," I half blurted, half sobbed.
“I know," came the reply. “Many of us come in not wanting to live.”
“But sobriety is about living.”
“Yes, and you want to be sober,” said my sponsor.
“But I don’t want to live.”
“This moment. This moment you don’t want to live but you still want to be sober. You still want to do right.”
“Yes.”
“And that is what you’ll do. You’ll pick up the tools as you have done so often and you will try everything suggested. You’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?”
“You’ll keep it up and see how you feel the next day.”
“What if I never feel better?”
“Ah, well. When have you ever had anything that dependable?”


Don’t force joy to simmer let it boil over.
*
Van and I
(Happy cleaning windows)



When the fog clears and I still can’t see,
I check my optics and wash my windows.
The mundane upkeep hones my pursuit.

After the weather and housekeeping concerns
are managed, eye exercises are next on the agenda.
I have to strengthen my equipment,
stay fit or fall prey to vagaries
of nearsighted limits or farsighted failings.

Myopia is an ever presence danger
I must guard against as well.
A fixed focus is a death trap.

I must learn to track a moving target
while I wend onward.
Nothing in life is stationary;
concentration and a decent line of sight
are priceless rudiments.

Continual practice with the tools and tactics
build my confidence and sharpen wit.
Burdens are lightened
when I see my goal in stark relief;

I can chart my path and make my way.
Sobriety means if I can see it I can believe it,
so I best go get the Windex.

March 2

IF I HAD A SCREWDRIVER




If I had anything other than this hammer, possibly, I would discontinue pounding this helix into the side of my universe. The slot is unused; the flat head of my sledge slams. A wide void is punched into my abyss as the threads are pummeled not turned. If I had picked up the right tools, if they had been displayed within my reach, if my granny had five wheels she might yet be a wagon.
I have picked up new tools but, having never seen them used, I bang with them. Watching others twisting the wrist and angling the elbow, I try to wrap my mind around the posture. Muscles I have never used, laminated to mental configurations unthought of, improvement in workmanship is slow. Many a fine toolbox has remained full and untouched, the mind lacking the dexterity to grasp the in-workings, the body ill-equipped for the outer. If I had a screwdriver, I pray I could bring to it the flexibility of sinew and the nimbleness of wit.


Remember the minutes; they belong to you.

*


Reality and Desire


“I know the difference between desire and reality,”
I whisper to my new found friend.
Who I am and what I am,
are a reality unto themselves,

Your recognition of that
and how you handle said recognition
are for you and God.

The vastness of the true you;
I hope to spend a lifetime surveying;
but not sampling.

What you want and your reality
are not mine to mind or mend.
If you are driving that train this is on you

If HP is the driver all the more incentive
for me to be still, enjoy the ride and await the outcome.
For in the end the question is never,
will you be mine, but what will I be to you.

Advanced Directives
 

Realizing that there are only so many minutes. :|

Yes, it is so easy to give them away, but impossible to get them back.....

March 3

SWEAT



I turn the desk lamp into the eyes of God. I put question after question to the construct of my childhood concept. “Would you please explain?" Or, "Exactly why did You do this, that, or the other thing?" "Are You now or have You ever been a member of…?” I put the pressure on; the beads of perspiration join, then trickle. I have God in ‘the box.’ I will not relent.
“I don’t understand You," I say disappointedly, as if speaking to a troubling adolescent. “You have so much potential if only You would apply Yourself.” The icon shakes Its head slowly and deliberately; I shake my head, too. So much time has passed and I am no closer to embrace.
“You don’t understand Me,” says God to me. Dawn breaks; I uncuff this mythic creature.
“You are not the one I am looking for. You are free to go.”


New is neutral, not better or worse.
*


Stepping up


I look along the list of names,
look upon the sea of faces.
Are there any whose eyes I avoid?

I gaze across the landscape
are there any craters,
any pock marks, any divots.

I tick through my actions
those I’ve recently taken
checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.

These combined facts and figures
create a portrait of my day;
I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.
If I can smile at what I see
all is well if not I begin the repair.

March 4

DICHOTOMY’S EMBRACE



Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?
Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?


Write a collage.



The Horse of a Different Stripe



When I arrived at the horse and pony show,
I saw all there was to see;
there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.

Yet I couldn’t help but return
to this particular zebra,
the spark of my imagination,
the inspiration of my dreams.

There was no help for me,
I want what I want and need what I need.
It was all about spirit, all about soul.

The fire in its eyes matched
the burning of my heart,
ignition at the point of recognition.

Then I stumble, then I fall,
bad behavior and wrong thinking,
the selfishness of the self-involved
takes hold and runs my mouth, “

Nice mount, great steed,
But can nothing be done about these stripes?”
The flash in those eyes,
the knowing knickers, said it all.

I was trying to stay in my small place
and that would never work with her,
if I wanted the Zebra,
I had to be willing to go to Africa.

After a telephone conversation yesterday with a family member, I found myself feeling irritated, confused, and just plain hurt. It seems to be the attitude my family has toward me is one of (at least in my mind anyway) indifference. I had to remember that I, though many years of alcoholic behavior, have left these people with this attitude toward me. ... Big Book page 62 "Selfishness-self-centeredness! That, we think, is the root of our troubles. Driven by a hundred forms of fear, self-delusion, self-seeking, and self-pity, we step on the toes of our fellows and they retaliate. Sometimes they hurt us, seemingly without provocation, but we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed in a position to be hurt.
So our troubles, we think, are basically of our own making. They arise out of ourselves, and the alcoholic is an extreme example of SELF-WILL RUN RIOT, though he usually doesn't think so. Above everything, we alcoholics must be rid of this selfishness. We must, or it will kill us. God makes this possible." :praying:

March 5

AND I BELIEVE YOU



“This will be easy,” says my sponsor.
“Oh, yes. Simplicity itself. I’m sure,” I respond. “I’ve participated in these plans before.”
“We get good results,” she retorts.
“I love how you pick goals, which are intellectual straight lines and emotional roller coasters. You do it with an open face, not a modicum of guilt.”
“Why should I feel guilty? You keep getting better; I keep staying sober. What is there to feel bad about?”
“The guileless look on your face; I fall for it every time, but no more. I know you’re cunning. You know this will be hard. I remember when we worked on honesty. What could have been simpler? Or hope, how sweet a concept. After thirty rounds on the floor with setting limits, I realized you’re like the bean seller that Jack met. You say they are magic beans and I believe you. You say they will grow to the sky. I know they will and I will climb them. Just don’t tell me it will be easy.”


Write an advertisement for your best quality.
*



A Duck Trying to Teach a Fish to Swim



Just because you’ve been in the water
doesn’t mean you know how to swim.
Just because you swim in the water
doesn’t mean you can teach me how.

Floating on top and plunging your head
under the surface occasionally
doesn’t qualify you to safe guard me.

Poaching is unpleasant to those of us caught,
we that were foolish enough to believe
that birds of a feather can teach school
are picked off and swallowed
by the benevolence of so much quack.