Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 14

NEVER LET GO


When it grows dark on one side of a transparency the other becomes reflective. When addiction doesn’t hold a flame for me, I see the true face of its results. Because I know now the destructive possibilities, I must print the picture and post it on the wall, for the day may come when addiction appears as a light for me and the mirror will be gone. I need to keep clear the truth even when my eyes lie to me and my sensibilities catch on fire. The glass can be the boundary or the tumbler. The glare of day can be harsh or bright. Light is forever shifting. I cannot count on shadows for predictions. I must know it when I see it, chant it to remember and hold hands and never let go.


Sort advice like laundry.
*
Participant Observer

Underneath it all I am more than naked;
I am hidden by exposure.
My body can never be as nude
as life with you in my thoughts.

My mind is a polygraph you wander through.
I have determined this is more than safe
and unlock the closets.

You are not my warden looking for contraband,
nor the janitor looking for trash,
you are here, you are my friend.

Having a better look around
simply to know me better
and to love me well.

Your unfamiliar stride is exciting,
I show off the places I long for you to see
and stand aside from the rest,
it is all yours to look through.

I do not resist.
You are my peaceful guardian;
I am your willing charge.

[Tommi]

Happy Birthday

Congratulations on your Anniversary of 25 years


of applying the principles, and your daily service of posting to Friend's of Bill around the world.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 15

THINGS WHICH ARE THICKER THAN WATER

“Pudding, mud, ice cream, cement, sauce, paint, sap, drool, gravy, wood.”
“What is that?" I ask my sponsor.
“A list of things thicker than water. There are so many; why do people get so hung up on blood?” responds my sponsor.
“Survival? Or maybe comfort? Tradition?" I counter.
“I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure there are many benign reasons why we strong-arm one another into relationships with family we may or may not be ready for.”
“You mean the families we drank with?”
“Or sometimes drank to get away from. But it’s not the family; it’s us. We have to learn to do what we need to do. We can’t force ourselves into relations with anyone for any reason other than it’s what is best for our sobriety. Shoulds and oughts have no place in the family situation.”
“So I can just walk away from them one and all?”
“You can’t do anything in that sweep of the wand. In the same vein, don’t obligate yourself to people due to viscosity.”
“Got ya. There has to be a real choice made.”
“Sounds like a promising start.”

Have what you want unless all you want is MORE.

*
The Dark Fantastic


When the tornado touches down worry ends;
the anticipation is over and thought stops.
Tragedy is funny that way.

In the aftermath I find out what mattered
and what didn’t;
whether I have helped or injured myself
trying to plan for the worst.

I fail to realize there are cloud filled days
when nothing happens
and days when trouble comes from out of the blue.

What matters ultimately is if I was happy yesterday
all the way into today until the thunder struck.
Greed is not: living for today;
greed is my attempt at gathering the future
while dragging the past.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 16

I AM


I am my own hope.
The spring of willingness flows within me and makes everything possible.

I am my own dream.
Colors and sprinkles fly in my mind and mix with a sprite's laugh and make me enchanted.

I am my own joy.
Filled with wonder and delight, my quick turns and ready mind warm my heart and pink my cheeks.

I am my own prize.
New and exciting, every day that I am myself,
I win.


Pith is dry and dead, be marrow.
*


Dewy, Cheatum & Howe


I must radically sever the close connection I have
with self-seeking, self-pity and dishonesty.
What will I use to pay the retainer
for the representation I will need to pursue this divorce?

Willingness is the earnest money,
which will start the ball rolling,
hard work pitches in its share
and faith pays the note each day I apply it.

All this and more is what it takes to divide
the endless stream of my compulsive thought
into a survivable day’s worth of life.

I have the prospect of being happy as a divorcee
or I could be a miserable widow
if I stay wed to my disease.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 17

IN THE PRAIRIE

In the prairie, there are small fenced cemeteries, family plots. The flat expanse of land opens to the eye; hand carved monuments stand in testimony to love and service. In these places grow the wild flowers… bluebells, paintbrush, lupines, and all manner of reedy grasses… these places cordoned off from mechanization and Agra-business. Held in trust are the bones of loved ones and the soul of nature. Deep inside me is a place like this. The place I have buried my young---the little ones who died of shame, neglect, and hurt. And I must return, not to exhume the dead, but to pay tribute. To return with honor and love, harvest the daisies and buttercups, grow them in the garden of my heart. I can tend the flowers that spring from destruction. I can mingle them with the growth of my sober life; restore my prairie to a splendor it has never known. I can enjoy the bounty of saving the seeds worth saving, and planting my Higher Power’s will for me.


Make a list of decoys.
*

Endlessly Moving Maps


I try to survive by memorizing the chaos.
I do well up to five layers deep
and then lose it, as the details become too great.

I am staking my life on my ability to track the patterns
in a storm while at the same time treading water.
I think this skill kept life and breathe in me for many years.

Now I fear I’ll drown in this roiling mass.
I must touch down my tender toes
and learn to walk this twisting path
and keep a pace with this spinning world.

Everything moves and I am overwhelmed.
I have forgotten my flesh and blood nature;
have mistaken myself for a stone, one which dare not roll,
one which has no part in this endlessly moving map.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 18

DON’T BE


Don’t be stupid.
Don’t be crazy.
Don’t be anything out of the ordinary.
Don’t be angry.
Don’t be hateful.
Just don’t be that way.
Don’t be sad.
Don’t be mopey.
Smile for the camera.
And pretend for everyone.
I wondered often why I felt like dying and it took me years to understand why.
Don’t be equals death.
Don’t feel.
Don’t cry.
Don’t love.
Life is about action, presence and content. You’re wrong if you break the rules and dead if you keep them. So, please be you and don’t be them. Look back when you have to but step out of the grave.


Learn followership too.
*


Single Serving Sterling


When the menu of life feels vast
I must focus on my teaspoon;
a simple tool that fits well in my hand,
whose use I well understand.

The possibilities conceived
when I ponder the intangibles
conspire to suck me down the rabbit-hole
where all that’s left to me is a drug.

When I come back to stir my tea
and lick the spoon clean
the world revolves around me
and without need of my completed unified theory.

Need looms, loss stacks,
salvation keeps a steady distance,
my only hope is to drink my tea,
I shan’t even sharpen my spoon;

I can and need to stay out of my fear built prison
and off the streets of hell.
My task is at hand and the size of the scoop
is a reminder to take all of life in small doses.

[LeftWriteFemme]

August 19

COMFORT AND WILLINGNESS



Closer than comfort is willingness. Comfort is at the skin but willingness is under it. I can live without comfort but not without willingness. Both are unseen but felt deeply. Willingness drives to the destination and comfort settles me in once there. Comfort is a gift like warmth; willingness is a gift like breath. I have been tempted to let go of willingness to hold on to comfort. True willingness brings true comfort; never the other way around. No matter where I have to go, willingness will take me there; I hope comfort will follow.


Draw satisfaction on the wall of your brain.
*

Go Where it’s Warm

The intangible rightness of cohesion is difficult to explain.
What is it that makes a group congregating into a congregation?
What makes a rag tag tousle into a home group?

It is the thing I yearn for, but dare not chase.
I know this too makes a grub into a butterfly,
yet private transformation seems necessary,
where the change of masses is gratuitous.

A thousand geese fly overhead;
arrows of individual miracles,
pointing the way to the meaning of it all.