March 18
OLD BEARS
Cold and despondent, nothing comforts me like the bear of early sobriety. Bought on a day I thought I would shake apart, this fuzzy old guy has been a display item for many years now, tucked to the corner with the lace edged pillows and folded shawls. Jittery and sleepless, it’s so easy to panic. I turn and see the amber eyes waiting for my embrace. His body is clothed in a hand knit child’s sweater made by a friend; the warmth of this snuggle is more than comfort. It is also the acceptance of loss. Quelling the dramatic highs and lows of the beginning costs many things and the depth of this is not lost in the moment. Alone in my bed, I see the passageway to the future appearing before me. I must rest and then walk on. I cannot stall or simper. Plain work is before me and simple old bear’s a consolation.
Journal your optimism.
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If I Name it do I Know it?
Does emotional proximity necessitate a nearer name?
Far off I would be called earthling possibly human.
On this plain, female maybe woman;
In this country Mrs. Theriault;
In my home call me Sherrie,
but in my bed hy calls me Baby.
Do these names offer the requisite information,
no further inquiries required, is it personal enough?
Is the limited nature a stunted interest
from without or a privacy fence from within?
Does the boundary shift dependent upon the participants
or is it an almost universal standard
of metered advance and reveal?
And do I get more when I give more
or does that end in less info and a change of direction?
Also who determines what I really need to know?
Wanting curiosity; my hungry mind and lonely heart
do not direct all the world, yet ceaselessly they strive,
shutter and ask again: Who are you?
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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