Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 30


Einstein’s Apple

Time is a player in every play, forever running forward even as I try to claw my way into the past. If I don’t provide a role, time writes itself in without regard for my intended plotline. Like the weather, time is by turns gentle and fierce. I must pay attention lest I run afoul of it and lose my life and limb. Though time is an arc I see swinging in my mind it is still the arrow shot and I am simply the fool with the apple.



Take a vacation from your expectations

*

Talk to me before I sleep


Talk to me before I sleep
Lay your hand upon my cheek

Talk to me before I sleep
All the years are yours to keep

Talk to me before I sleep
Fold me deep within your speech

Talk to me before I sleep
Hold me tight when I start to reach

Talk to me before I sleep
Never let me touch the sheet

Talk to me before I sleep
Warm me with your wondrous heat

Talk to me before I sleep
Precious are the things you teach

Talk to me before I sleep
Love and kindness is how you greet

Talk to me before I sleep
Into darkness let me seep

Talk to me before I sleep
In my dreams it’s you I seek

Talk to me before I sleep
I fear that I am in too deep

Talk to me before I sleep
Wake me to the morning dew

Talk to me before I sleep
Let me know it’s always you



You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 31


Again Truth

Not wanting to speak the truth doesn’t change the truth, truth is funny that way, it is not affected by my cold shoulder. I snub it and it stands just the same. I am the one who bends and withers. Truth withstands the pressure that I never have, the force of other people’s disappointment and regret. I have sympathy or is it cowardice? I tremble at the power of emotion and truth just carries on. I do not want to be the truth or stand in its place; for truth is not a beating heart and I am too much a feeling creature, but I will learn to keep the company of honesty and right. And stand under the arching bough of truth, because it is a shelter from the winds of change and I need all the help I can get. When I am tempted to shun truth in favor of expedience I will try to remember that life is longer than I think and if I don’t face the truth now it is going to be in my face later when I might be less prepared.


Make the bed so that it is an invitation at the end of the day

*

Essentials

What is essential....is the correct amount of pressure as I press my lips to yours.

What is essential....is the way I slide my arms around your neck and slip my fingers through your hair.

What is essential....is the scent that rises from the nape of my neck as you kiss it.

What is essential....is the moan you illicit from my soul

What is essential....beyond the toe curl and the secret smile is well founded trust, also admiration.


You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 1


THE COWS ARE HIGHER THAN THE HOUSE


I got sober only to end up living in a house where the cows are higher than the house. I mean, next to my house there is a hill. The hill is surrounded by a fence. The cows are pastured inside the fence. Standing on the hill, the cows are taller than the house.
I didn’t expect to live in a house where the cows were higher. I expected normal. I didn’t expect the cows at all. I expected the house, but not this house, and not here, next to this hill. I expected to tell people, "Come to my house. It’s at the end of the lane. It’s the one with the rose colored shutters." My sponsor wants to know why rose colored shutters are okay but cows overlooking the house are not. I can’t answer her. It’s just wrong; that’s all! I don’t know why she can’t understand this. It seems perfectly clear to me.
My sponsor says I am powerless over cows and my life is not unmanageable but my thinking is. She tells me to paint purple cows, to write stories about worse places for the cows to be. I tell her the tub. She says write it down. She’s no fun.
I heard in a meeting I should pray for the people and things I am upset about. I pray for the cows. My sponsor says the cows see how I live my life and she is sure the cows pray for me.


Write a letter to the moon

*

Lie


Yes, a lie is just a lie,
but the truth also has problems.
I relay the facts
and the words take on a life of their own,

They leave out the backdoor
and walk on down the road.
They move to another town
and never find time to come back for a visit
even though, I am their mother.

And woe to the woman
who grows attached to credit
or recognition for her ideas.
These kidnapped prodigies are never ransomed
but sold outright and their DNA not questioned or tested.

So, my advice is to love your words in secret
and raise your notions behind high walls.
If you are ever called upon to share your wisdom, lie.

For even if you’re caught the risk is tolerable.
Exposure is awkward but then again no one is looking,
so, what is there to lose.
A lie is just a lie but it stays home with you at night.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 2

SPRUCE

The gum that grows in trees and trickles down bark, that is harvested and chewed, spit out and sticks to shoes, is the very stuff that mimics my life. I race with vitality, burst my confines, am ruminated and masticated by various onlookers and then adhere myself to anyone I feel will carry me to a more advantageous venue. I needn’t apologize for my fluid nature or viscosity. I am just as I should be, always where and what I am, and at the same time, on my way to somewhere and something else.


Make a collage from junk mail


*
GOOD AS GOLD

Just because I’m as good as gold
Doesn’t mean that I win the prize.
Doesn’t mean I get my way.
Doesn’t mean I gain your heart.

Being ‘extra special sweetness and light girl’
Doesn’t secure my future.
It does prevent me from living my life
as someone I don’t like.

It contents me to keep my own company.
It is a huge improvement over living
as the raging fury I once was.

Any destination I desire is more readily assessable
from this amiable posture;
in spite of inexpert yearning.
I can breathe past you if must be.

Walk down the road holding my own hand
instead of holding a lung full of air.
But I am the treasure.

You must earn me never capture me.
Appreciate me not devalue me.
I’m good as gold.
And please know that I am the prize.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 3


I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS GOING TO THE CIRCUS


I show up at a meeting. I didn’t know the circus was in town. I expected calm, demure, sober behavior. My expectations were dashed, my bubble burst. There were people streaming back and forth in front of the speaker; there were kids playing among the chairs. Smokers worked the meeting in shifts, hustling out the back door and smoldering back in. The side conversations rivaled the main attraction. People dressed for the street not for the meeting. The 'bippy shirt, tights, and no skirt' was more of a high wire act than I had ever seen before. Shock cannot even begin to describe the state of my mind.
“But for the grace of God,” said my sponsor.
“No,” I said. “It’s a choice, they’re sober now.”
“Oh, yes,” she remarked.
“Weren’t you sober when you took on every man with time, looking for a fight with each of them?”
“I was cutting my chops. They understood.”
“Some of them didn’t,” said she. “Weren’t you sober when you dyed your hair red, but only half?”
“I was afraid I’d dye my scalp, so I started lower.”
“Yes, but aren’t you the one who says sudden hair color change is a sign of instability in your sobriety?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
“I think you would have fit well with the circus, you and your two-tone hair, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“You’re being mean.”
“And what are you being?”
“Judgmental.”
“That’s my girl! What are you going to do about it?”
“Be grateful. Grateful I got in quick enough, grateful people let me work things out in the rooms, and grateful I still have something to learn from everyone.”
“Kiss up.”
“That’s me.”

Hold a rock in your hand until you warm it

*

Maniacs on Pogo Sticks


I fear maniacs on pogo sticks peeping through
my rural second story windows
as the smoke of paranoia curls between my ears.

Overestimating my interest to others
causes me as much harm as the underestimation.
Attributing super powers to onlookers
is a parlor trick my ego plays
to keep me occupied while my life passes by.

I sacrifice all my possibilities for fear
of what could be stolen through my keyhole.
I cut off my face to spite my poor lonely nose.

I must move forward in spite of my disquietude
for the future lay ahead, yet I do console myself
that it is harder to hit a moving target.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 4

THE FLOCK

Today I came to a place in the road covered with birds. The nearby fields, covered in birds, the trees covered. As I approached, the birds took wing. The flock responded to my presence; each bird flew, the sky darkened with their flight; wave upon wave, boundaries intact, taking action in the face of obstacle. The gift of instinct displayed for me as I fly to my meeting, my instinct rehab. I am learning my intuition; my sponsor spoons it to me from the steps. I suck it down never knowing what it is about this process that makes me better, anymore then I know how grain and bugs make birds fly. I have theories, things I roll in my fingers when I’m nervous. I get glimmers, things my Higher Power sparkles in my eyes for a treat. In truth, I don’t know ‘how’ I don’t need to know, any more than birds need to know lift to weight ratios.
When I respond to life events, when I spend less time self-concerned, I am so much closer to self.
“Aren’t we spiritually centered?” quips my sponsor.
“Yes,” I reply. “One day in a row, I’m going for the record.”
“That’s all the birds have; you’re doing as well as they,” she smiles and pats my back.



Say hello the next time a bee seeks you out
*
One Singular Crowd


Isolation among the isolators
is replete with metaphor and theme.
Expectation blithers loudly
but is drown by the palpable inevitability of the outcome.

I pirouette in a room filled with dancers
but we do not touch,
we just spin near one another full view but little contact.

Yet I hear my heart beating in my ear
and know that I am alive.
The flush of neighboring cheeks
attests to duplicate conditions there.

We are moving together sometimes in harmony
but other times in antipathy, dependent all the same.
We are the army of independent meanings.

Individual cases sharing one slender goal
but that’s all that we need.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 5


THE BAG

I saw a bag at the top of a tall tree. Full of air, the wind pushing it; it rocked back and forth, held by the stub of a branch. It is so beautiful, so lucky, so blessed.
My sponsor frowns. “Beautiful, yes,” she says. “Lucky and blessed? Convince me.”
“The bag is lucky; it could be on my doorknob, holding garbage. Blessed? It’s free, not a care in the world, supported aloft by the strength of the tree.
“Inside your house, it’s warm. Holding garbage is useful. Lucky to be out in the cold, no purpose, no one needing your help? Blessed? Caught on a tree, trapped, sharp twigs everywhere ready to shred you, beaten by the wind?”
“You're playing devil's advocate.”
“ I do it well. What are you playing? You want to be free. What is free? You want to know for sure you’re on the right path. You think the bag knows?”
“If I were the bag, I might be mad. I might condemn the forces filling me so full I can only feel the force itself. I might be exhilarated, overtaken, free from responsibility. I might feel isolated, unstable 40 feet in the air. I might feel punished, abandoned, dismissed. I could feel a thousand different things.”
“And on the days the wind doesn’t blow?”
“Oh.”


Imitate all the animal calls you know
*


Time’s Temperament


Bubbling tides of white water,
time roils past me and my protests go unheard.
Physic feedback loops revisits raw moments
to me with inopportune exactitude.

The beautiful droplets of dawn rain down
then evaporate leaving another day’s timeline
to fan out before me.

The alternating fury and jubilation
of passing intervals leaves a challenge,
first a question of bend or break,
second a call to forecast.

Can I flex or will I live in pieces?
Shall I look at patterns
and strive for harmonious waltz
or turn my face from the calendar dreading each trice?

Bully or benefactor time rolls.
I can go with it or be under it that choice is mine.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 6


MARIAN

Even if the whole world was created in a cipher and whirls off into nothingness, this is still not a commentary on the existence of God. We have today. For this moment of sobriety there is a power greater than my despair, my apprehension and it builds with me a home from the bricks of my optimism. Partnership is no prevention of inhospitable endings but is a temporary relief from desperate loneliness. The tired struggle of guaranteeing niceness spills my energy, scraping from each 24 the marrow so necessary. My open palm saves me from grasping, my open mind from grappling; I rid myself of tiny gods in tiny heavens where I do not reside. Let the blades of grass probe between my toes; there is beauty for me to see, love to hold, hope to float. Where this train originated and whatever its destination, it’s in my station now and I am grateful to be on board.


Leave your outgrown shell for the sea to take
*


Hand Me Down Pain


You have sent a cold thing into my heart
it causes my feet to move me away from you.
It need not be spoken of this is a thing of ice and lead.

Words are no help here
action is the only cure.
Eternity can be spent
with a soul bisected by slivers.

Stepping the willing way to joy and freedom
seems so unlikely from this frosty local.
Make my mind up I must.

Close my eyes and move forward.
I will leave your pain behind me
I hope not to have to leave you.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault