Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 14

THE FIRST FATHER


The rest of what I have to say I will slip under your gravestone if I have time after I buy that red dress. To say I hate you is an overstatement; I only detest what I know of you, the rest I leave to other people who might have the misfortune to cross your path. Your unavailability can protect you from anything I could ever do to you. Your hurt and arrogance is far worse a punishment than I could ever inflict on you if I thought you were worth the energy of an attempt. Having to be you every day must make it hard to leave the bed in the morning; I know I couldn’t do it if I had to drag your baggage around all day. The sad part is I’m not sure you know it’s baggage. You might think it’s armor, but your misnaming of everything is just another of the things I never miss about you. That is why, although I pray everyday for your well being for the sake of mine, if I never see you again, it might just be long enough.


Live up to your height.


*


Bad Acting

Because there never seems to be enough love
in the world to fill the wound,
my wounded self riots.

At times the debauchery seems good natured enough,
flamboyant yet without harm,
at other times the disturbance is apparently violent
and the issuing tumult a crime.

All for want of wholeness and sanity
I pursue shattered fractured activity
just to keep from dwelling where I cannot live,
where there is no air.

I want land beneath my feet
and full, full lungs
on my own I find neither of these
and little else of use.

Isolation even in a crowd is the tell tale sign
that I am in the, me, myself and I mode
of drowning in a teacup and require rescue.

Little more than raising my hand above the surface
and asking for help is needed
though this is a Herculean effort as we all know.

Rowing up stream is a bigger battle then it ever looks
and I know the river runs through me.


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 15



PRETTY FEET

I look at the line on my heel where I must stay vigilant with the pumice and the moisturizer. My toes are clean and straight but nothing more. I see my feet as passable; it’s hard for me to see them as beautiful. Well cared for is the best I can do, but there is a beauty in that. I think of myself; I am an alcoholic. There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either. The care I take in tending my sobriety, the nurturing I see others use in their own lives, there is a certain loveliness to that. Crusted-over hearts, scraped and oiled, are fit and ready to beat anew. Polluted minds, drained and reformed, turn lives upright. Step work and making meetings are just functionary things but gorgeous in their own way. Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.



Congratulate the part of you that survived.
*


My Experiences with Tennis
I have held the racket, I have hit the ball,
but I have never played with a partner.
I have slammed the fuzzy orb against the wall
for long years now, but I have never had a mate.

There were times when I had opponents;
yes I’ve had a couple of those,
a collaborator though, that I have never had.

I have learned to overcome opposition
either through wile or guile.
Slugged my way toward some inevitable outcome,
I never expected you on my court.

The game we play is for keeps
and the muscles required I have never used,
I ache from the pain of ending an atrophy
imposed on me by isolation and misunderstanding.

Often I don’t know how to stand,
don’t know how to act;
don’t know how to be the equal to your serve.

I play chase, running after the thing I didn’t see
and only faintly felt.
I have come to the place where
I know, you and I are a team;
You will not be leaving looking for someone
better equipped or with greater experience.
It is time for me to layout in front of you
my host of tendencies and inclinations.

I’m in the habit of overwhelming with my strength
to hide my weakness;
I must expose this all to you,
the strength and the weakness,
and work together for the resolution.

I will no longer pretend that I know
what is right and wrong in this un-played game.
I fear that I will lose the old game by making this change

All that is familiar put up for grabs
to the uncertain outcome of paired sports.
All I truly know is
that with you by my side I can never lose
and I will learn to do whatever it takes to be your partner


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[LeftWriteFemme]

March16



ANGLE OF RETURN

As in a hall of mirrors, it is sometimes hard to tell if I am moving forward in my recovery. Likewise, as promises are fulfilled, their obtuse arrival is a quandary. The juxtaposition of acute homecoming of former faculties is also startling. How the light finds and reflects itself from sober face to sober face, from open heart to open mind, is the spectral of hope to me. My soul seeks me day after day though I left it so far behind. It brings to me the person of God’s intent and my new acquaintance. Patience, never my virtue, finds me stacked with packages delivered in piles so high I can’t keep up with opening them. Never in my life have I known less about my future or felt more assured.


Earn your own respect.


*

Suit up, Show up


I stand naked, paralyzed,
unable to reach my intended destination
or any destination at all.

Goose flesh is no real motivation
and I am reluctant to use the prod
having only produced resistance
and reversals with past applications of this weapon.

Entreatment might work
if only I could find the right one;
then again anything might work if it were a fit.

Covering my all-together is an action;
taken judiciously it sometimes is all the arrival I can manage,
taken disingenuously it precludes the chance
for any further forward motion
and may create setback or retreat.

I should not attempt to hide fear with wardrobe
though I can try to warm it.
Façade building is best done with a bottle in tow
reality is best faced with a sponsor by my side.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 19

WET BLANKET



I have carried this sodden thing with me all my life, its weight a burden for numerous years. I have never been able to explain my continuing drag of this pitiful thing. Though it has been commented on by many, my fidelity is boundless. In spite of inner questions and doubts, now that the fire is here, I am glad to have it. I pull it over me and step into the fray. Thick and moist, I somehow struggle under its influence and am able to do what others, bare of my encumbrance, cannot. I don’t believe I can quench all the flames, but I hope to help some to safety and bat down the encroaching inferno a bit.


Acknowledge the upswings in your value.
*




Bent, Spindled, Mutilated


Injury changes memory,
not just the memory of the individual trauma,
but the very nature of the mind.

The hooks and loops distort
and I can’t hold on as I once did.
The misses and disconnects become more frequent,
then they become expected.

Emotional fluff-ups do not suffice,
the hardware is damaged
and a positive attitude is advisable
but the pliers are a necessity.

Some things are easier to break than to repair,
in fact most things are easier to break, no skill required,
though some take it on as skill,

Most destruction is ignorant or accidental,
nothing personal just a part of a pain filled landscape.
Direct intervention is not the same as hands-free degradation,
though both have their cost.

Redemption, restoration, is sought from all comers.
Possibilities and probabilities stack;
action is a relief, whether or not it is a fix.

I take a breath to face the final blow,
for when the cost adds up
and I look for recompense
all I hear is the check is in the mail



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 20


JAG

I have the most interesting lawn ornament. It is long and sleek, low to the ground, resting on rubber rolls, steep of side and languid front and back. It has glass, glass that slants and glass that slips into its sides. Its paint shines when I buff it and shows dust when I don’t. Inside there are seats and many artistic accessories. I sit on the steps and admire the thing; then I sit in the thing and admire the porch. That’s all there was until I was handed the key.



Live at home.


*
When is enough, enough?

What is the difference between full and all?
Don’t know? Well, let me tell you,”
said my sponsor with a wink.

“Full is when the broccoli that went perfectly
with the entrée leaves a pleasant smile on your face,
full is when the arrow on the gas gauge points to F,
these are little indicators of full.
Indications that you have reached all:
the wet scary feeling in your mouth
after your second piece of pie,
all is the gas pouring down the side of your car
because you have to try to squeeze more in.”

“Yes, yes,” I reply, “I know when I’ve overdone it;
I resent everyone or at least I am cranky about everything.
I know when I’m under doing it, too;
I get either a lost feeling
or the sense that I should be in charge,
but how do I really know that I am doing enough?”
“If your sponsor has a good idea of where you are
mentally, physically and spiritually;
if the people in your home group can count on you
to contribute service regularly.

If most people in most meetings know not just your face,
but also your name.
If your sponsees freely admit that you are their sponsor,
those are sure signs.
Though the biggest signal for me is how constant my contact is.
If I’m reluctant to pray
I’m usually not doing enough of something.”


.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 21


20 CART PILEUP

“What’s the problem here?” asks my sponsor, as she approaches my apparent impasse.
“Well, I’ve been trying to get these carts lined up. What do you think of my progress?”
“How many carts do you have here?”
“A few, quite a few. Why?”
“And how many horses?” She asks.
“Just the one. The same as everyone else,” I answer.
“And where is this poor animal?”
“Back there, behind the carts.”
“Okay. We have a two-fold problem here. First, one horse can handle only one cart. So, pick one. Second, that sad creature needs to be in his proper position to do any good at all. You had best figure out a way to get him in front or you will remain stuck even after you whittle down your burden.”
I was stunned. She went to her cart, climbed to the seat and took up the reins.
“How long did it take you to get yours like that?” I asked.
“Honey, it takes every day. Don’t kid yourself. I wake up every morning with the same train wreck you're standing in now. Learn to sort faster and you’ll have the rest of today. You can start over with the rest of us tomorrow.”



Sip the bitter, drink the sweet.
*


Clever Me

I am clever, I am so clever,
everyone knows it and I know it, too.
So, why do I get slam stuck
on the very simple things
required to keep my life running smoothly?

I know what needs to be done,
yet have no clue as to how to accomplish
these threads of minutia.
I stall; panic, plod, pout.

When I do force myself to do it
I end up creating either a new pile
of impossible incidentals
or some anticlimactic end,
but secret solutions are as of yet undiscovered.

The whip, the lash and the club avail nothing
though sweet enticements do no better.
I pray, “Dear God please help me!”
but this has no point, I don’t want the help,
I am afraid of the help.

I am afraid of the change
and of course who wouldn’t be?
Beyond here lay someone I don’t know,
someone I only fear,
beyond here lay the fearless me
and I am clever enough to be afraid of her.



.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 22

MATH

“If this is the solution, why aren’t I happy?" I ask my sponsor in a piteous whine.
“You’ve run the equation and the solution equals happiness?" She queries, “That’s the whole and total answer? How many times did you go through the computation?”
“What’s your point? Are you saying happiness isn’t the answer? What about joy, and freedom? I heard someone say that was the goal. I know that’s what I heard.”
“Let’s think about it for a hot second. What would you think if I worked the steps as hard as I do and, as a result, walked around in a perpetual grin?”
“I’d think you had lost your mind.”
“So, you’re telling me you believe the product of recovery is idiocy? The thing we all are aspiring to is bliss and nothing but?”
“No, I guess not. Then what is the solution for you?" I ask.
“A tally which fits the day I’m having. Joy sometimes fits that bill but other days it’s sadness or concern. There have been days when disbelief and dismay were part of the appropriate response. For me, the solution is having an equation that helps me respond to life instead of reacting to it. That’s better than unending happiness; that’s wholeness,” she said with a grin.

Harmony is at contrast with permission.


*
Suddenly

Creeping realization has never been my experience
with God’s handy work in my kitchen.
I start out making a mess
and I find in short order that G-d has made a meal;
fit food for apt hunger.

I could throw myself into the kneading and shaping,
but without the yeast
which is so freely given I have no bread;
only a lump that will choke me in the end.

Even my very own abilities are gifts
I was incapable of offering to myself
and are only found here in my possession
through sheer grace.

I have woken up with my face
saliva glued to the table top far too often
only to discover my Higher Power doing
and I am grateful for without that action
I would be un-done.