Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.”

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.

[Tommi]

Thanks sherrie. As always, enjoyed today's writng.

Sometimes it takes a simple reminder, a writer's nudge to look into your own harbor.

On this extra day, I took an early swim, lazed in the jacuzzi and realized it has been 5 months since I have been in the water.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Originally Posted by Tommi

Thanks sherrie. As always, enjoyed today's writng.

Sometimes it takes a simple reminder, a writer's nudge to look into your own harbor.

On this extra day, I took an early swim, lazed in the jacuzzi and realized it has been 5 months since I have been in the water.

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