Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 8



ACCIDENT OF BIRTH

We are here together, born the millstones about one another’s necks. Parentage equates to persuasion and I hold these strangers to my breast. Minds having chosen, violent turns skew off radar’s blip. I am held by guilt’s tight sutures to this motley mass. I long for the freedom of birds to fly far from my nest mates. Possessing sense enough not to neighbor with owners of my same genetic skin, I dream to be a turtle of the sea and meet each other in neutral waterways, friends for seasons of choice, far from the family shore. Accidents brought us together. Let kindness emancipate us.


Test your mind with poetry.

*


From Pen to Progress



“Leave those gaters in the paddock
awhile longer,” said my sponsor.
I gave a little better than a cursory glance
at the hulking forms
though I did stay strictly on my side of the fence
and grasped tighter the hand of my custodian.

The onceover, worked fine as my first pass through
the creatures of the swamp,
I didn’t fully grasp what lay beyond the petting zoo,
but given my newness this wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

On second run I was in a boat
with a glass bottom and a guide, I had vision, clarity.
Third time through was a charm,
swim fins and a rope tied about my waist,
it was all too real.

I floundered and had to be hauled bodily
by my home group, my sponsor stood anchor.
I have numbered and charted these murky waters now
and I see the lure they have for my ailing, twisted mind;

The intensity of the brutes awash
and the dark calling to dark
makes that sick sense that only an alcoholic can parse.

I have to take to those byways
with supplies and reinforcements.
Never swim alone!



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 9


READY

Ready or not here it comes: life on terms of its own. Bracing for the onslaught of gravity I grip too well the implements of past days. Fearing the pressure, I lay in my shallow grave, the ground having been scooped out by hand. Withering from expectation, my blood runs slow and dark, reducing to coagulated futility, losing my life in anticipation of death. Attempts at being less as means of protection fail. Less is not a solution; fading does not make life more livable. It makes me unavailable. Readiness is my responsibility; it is momentary. Momentary is sufficient. Sobriety is nothing more than lining myself up with the needs of this instant. I need go no further. Whole solutions, not my department. Showing up, dressed and washed, ball and bat in hand if possible, but just making it to the lineup is my full time job. Even if I never swing, it is still better than being buried in the field.


Put a joke in your pocket.
*


Simultaneous Acceptance



Being typical is a difficult thing to live with,
but I am typical.
Being extraordinary is a challenging thing
to live up to, but this is also mine to bear,
you see I am a typical alcoholic after all.

Walking with one foot in each camp is not enough.
I must simultaneously accept both
my common commonality
and my lottery winner uniqueness
If I am to travel hand in hand with my Higher Power.

If I don’t integrate this double reality,
allow it to imprint my thoughts
the way it is tattooed in my DNA
I can not possibly take the biggest step of all.

Drop my judgment of these things
so that humility can dwell within.
You see there is not enough room in the vortex
of my humanness to accommodate the jags of verdict

And the desire for the sublime smoothness of humility.
I can’t chase humility, I have had to face that,
but I can remove the impediments to its residence.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 10



FORGIVENESS

“Forgiveness is not something to force on people like unwanted coffee,” says my sponsor.
Everyone tells me forgive, forgive, forgive.
“These are the same folks who said, ‘stay and have another drink.’ It is only appropriate to forgive people who ask for forgiveness and show you with their behavior that they want it. It is never appropriate to shove forgiveness on people who haven’t asked, show no signs of wanting it, or demonstrate just the opposite.”
I thought forgiveness was to help me feel better.
“Letting go of resentments is to make you feel better. Making amends to the people you’ve hurt, and cleaning up your side of the street is to make you feel better. Keeping an open mind and heart will make you ready for the possibility of someone coming to make amends. Forgiveness is a two-way street; anything you have to throw over someone like a net is usually a mistake,” she says with a wink, and then she has the nerve to curtsy.



Design your dream tea.
*


Hospitality


What unites us, heals us, serves us,
is the hospitality of the program.
Fellowship encircles us and draws us close,
in a word unites us, hospitality is our core.

Hospital is the root of hospitality
and recovery is the route to health,
hospitality is the skeleton of recovery.

Hospitable aid,
the true gift of self is hospitality;
hospitality the master of A.A.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 16



THE DEALS I’VE MADE


Because they are deals and not resentments or secrets, these circular schemes did not come out in my fourth step. They didn’t come out in the wash; they come out whenever they are broken. If the deal is don’t eat pickled herring and you won’t have to remember X, the deal will get broken when pickled herring is served to me at some social gathering. As I get healthier, the breaks connect ever more deeply. What in early sobriety would have given me unexplained discomfort now gives me full-blown flashbacks. And I watch the deal unravel… you weren’t supposed to eat this because this is what was on the plate when… but now that it’s on the plate here, now you have to face this ugly roiling mess. The deals saved my life, but unless they are handled with care and honesty, they can cost me the life I have now. I must choose a safe person and place to share these broken shards, living alone with this will not work and making it public fodder is a set up as well. In every one of these deals there is a back door to a drink and therefore We have to go out the front door together.



Pick three color words and use them all day.


*


The Long Dark Ride


Are fear and ignorance one thing
that looks like itself
or terrifying twins who feed one another?

Can they be separated
and if they can will it kill them?
And if they die
what will spring from their remains?

Will it be better or worse?
Can I tell what better is?
Should I tell if it turns out to be worse?

Is there ever an end to either fear or ignorance?
If there is, how deep is that well
and will I survive a trip to the bottom?

Do you know and do you care?
Will you go with me if I find the way?
Will you take me if you find it first?



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 17


PIGS

“Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.”


Talking to a chrysalis about flight is like talking to a fetus about dry land. Descriptions of future events and possibility are lost in the translation. To the uninitiated, these realities sound like gibberish and flights of fancy or foolish dogma. Yet, I am drawn to talk of these things, imagine and describe them. I am changed by this procedure. I am transformed in the details. When I can accurately depict it, I am taking the stride into living it. I am my own pig. I have taught myself to sing and have wasted no time at all.



List your favorites so you don’t forget yourself.




*
Suzy Q’s Mother
Through process of elimination
I have had to learn who G-d is and who G-d isn’t.
When it comes down to my understanding
everything incomprehensible is off the table
and what is left is mine, all mine.
I can’t fathom an all powerful G-d;
therefore my G-d is not all powerful.
I cannot begin to comprehend a vengeful G-d,
as you might have guessed; my G-d is not vengeful.
Because of these constraints I have
a non-omnipotent G-d, one with limitations and bounds.
This doesn’t mean I love my G-d any less
in fact it may be why I love my G-d so very much.
And G-d loves me with a Mother love
that trails me to the depths and heights of the path,
but like any mother, she can’t do everything.
My G-d is accomplished and wonderful,
but there are days that I need things,
which lay outside my Higher Power’s area of expertise
and I must turn to help beyond our little circle of two.
This is not easy at first.
We both feel awkward in the attempt,
but Suzy Q lives two houses down
Her mother still has her hook shot from college
and since my mom’s experience of basketball
is that it’s the court you walk through to go play tennis,
I ask Mrs. Q with help making the three point shots.
I don’t have to understand Suzy Q’s mother,
I leave that to Suzy.

I just have to ask for help,
learn the jump and go home when I’m done.
It’s nice to be able to slam dunk,
but there is no place like home.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 18


THIN ICE

The ice is brittle, transparent and breaking away. I brace for destruction, turmoil and frigid descent. I am stuck in my topside thinking and can not realize the chance for freedom the cracking expanse promises. I am an oceanic creature. I can escape my watery bonds with the splitting of the ice. Trapped in a hole I keep open only through the friction of my unrest, I am kept from the community of life to which I belong. My reflection mixes with my view of the sky and I forget my place, forget my name, forget how I have come to be trapped here. The pining after what is not mine to have has brought me to this thin edge. I must break through to be who I am; in doing so I shatter the illusion of who I thought I was. Zeal to zenith I must move away from the phantasm and mockery and take refuge in what I am.




Remember your genius.

*

Hiding
“Defeat is what you make of it,” says my sponsor.
“Fighting a thousand secret battles
when you claim that you want peace is not right.
The agony of defeat is when you keep on fighting.
There is no honor in waving the white flag,
but never laying down your arms.”
“I can’t just give them up
they have been in the family for years,”
my whining retort.
“I’m sure they have, darling, I’m sure they have,
and haven’t done any of you a lick of good either,”
her smug reply.

“They are good for sabotage,”
I begin my running start at her.
“Sabotage is something you only do to yourself,
because who else can you really sabotage?
Who do you really hate enough other than you?”
“My hobby is denying that you know.”
“Yes, and sweet lot of good it does you,

The war rages within you
and outside you say it’s harmony,
no matter all the signs of discord.”

“And if I were to really give up. If, I were really tired enough,
how can I insure my safety?”
I asked with my hands nearly in the air.

“Tell the truth, even if it’s only to yourself.
Put space between you and weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, and make sure you surrender to a friend.”



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 19



LIFE IS UNFAIR

Assuring myself I will not be permitted through the gate, I walk the perimeter, assessing the fence, looking for a place to exploit, a wire slightly high. Trying to look graceful, I duck under the fence, telling myself I prefer life on the edge. The water is less dangerous here on the fringe; I wouldn’t want to be swept away. I stay clear of my peers. I stand in the baby pool and feel confident I won’t drown, brushing from my conscience that I won’t swim either.
Struggling to the top of the pile or scurrying underneath is a blatant lack of humility. Skirting the margin is the same. Facing life and finding it unfair, I take to the world of exception and hope to slip through the cracks to a life of safety. In that act I discount my talent and ability. Worst of all, I disconnect from God.


Toy with your thoughts, play with your food.
*


Jenny

Though ignorance may be bliss,
living in the shadow of someone else’s
ignorance is sheer hell.
The confusion is bad, but the lies are worse.

Want to cripple a child for life
give it to a well meaning fool
who has the rule book to the wrong board game,

That child will grow to need crutches they don’t make
and medicine they can’t brew.
Dependent on misguided insanity the child will require
a miracle cure and may lack the ability to ingest it.

Best case scenario the kid makes a brave escape
into a world she can barely comprehend,
worse case she turns the rule book upside down
and reads it backwards to her own unfortunate brood.

Ignorance is always a twilight proposition,
half agreement the other half handcuffed nightmare.
Full consent is by necessity impossible
while blameless innocents is similarly unachievable.

The only suggestion I can make
from this side of the looking glass
is to pick your poison and plan your getaway.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 20



TIME IS HERE TO STAY


I have passed my days emptying them like breadcrumbs onto a trail of rescue. Expecting them to facilitate redemption, and if not that, at least retreat, I release an audible sigh as I let each evening slip to the path behind me. The future I view as a cliff I am nearing. I hope to be ransomed before the edge. I plan carefully how to stay in sync with revision; things must be resolved and revert. But this is not the way. The past is there to be mined. Inert gold, as well as land mines, linger beneath the surface; the days stream on. I am not nearing the limit; I am shrinking from hope. I turn my eyes from expectancy with a shudder. Deeply, I realize I must leave my fairytale life and walk away with my days in my pocket, a treasure that is mine to spend.


Tie a string around your hopes then let them go.


*

Katie’s Wish


Does G-d arrange for my parking spot,
foil the Colts opponents,
release the stains from my dry-cleaning?
Can I ask for the petty and pedantic?

All One G-d Faith,
reads the side of the soap bottle,
but really is there only one?

Like Santa? The Tooth Fairy? OZ?
Is my life better or worse for the whimsy?
How would I know? Why would I care?

As long as I live with what I get most times,
it truly is okay to ask for what I want sometimes,
I mean hell, the Superbowl is only once a year.
I’m allowed to be unreasonable and happy.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 7


MUD PIES

Mud pies and retro-childhood are for the hurt ones, small and angry inside me. They require care and special attention, but I can’t stop with them. Saving the children to starve the adolescents is a sad fate, and abandoning adults after bringing them all this long way would be indescribably cruel. I cannot work on healing all the while waiting for some ice floe to shove myself off on. There is never a time when I am not the responsible party for the people who inhabit my interior life. I live their reflection every day; there is no one-way mirror with which to hide unresolved issues, no rug to sweep them under; they flow through me like a river. I must return to them to breed new health as a salmon swims back to the waters of its birth to bring new life. I must brave the complexities of maturity; I cannot just sit in the mud.


Make a truce with your fears.


*

The Price of Today’s Ride



Much of my spiritual awakening has been spent
separating myself from the nightmare of the past,
reassuring myself that in fact, it, the horror, is over.

As my present has improved my reactions
are still invested with the hide or fly coping
of a child dealing with terror.

Things get better yet barricades are erected,
departing flights secured.
Disengaging the clutch of fingers wrapped so tightly
around the escape hatch takes a great deal of my
short supply of faith and confidence.

Laying down my anticipatory reluctance
in favor of optimism has had the breathtaking feel of pain,
though in fact it was only the separation
from a poisonous crutch and the vacuum it creates.

Allowing myself to see beauty
at the same time as I deal with the truth of the past;
standing in the full light of morning
and not blocking out the brilliant pain of night
is the outstanding gift my spiritual path affords me.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 21

THE TEAM



The dream sobriety I envision, the fantasy recovery I mentally construct, blows out to sea as so much mist in the face of actual life. Setting out sports teams, which don’t exist, is playful and entertaining. Trying to rebuild the principals of the program is a delusion I can drink over. Finessing my network, and pretending I can put together my team on a basis of specialized talents instead of ground level willingness, is like designing a plane without regard to physics, playing only to aesthetics. Anytime I am redesigning I must realize I am no longer participating. If I keep my head in the game, I can stay away from statistics and stop planning outcomes.


Shade your life from undo exposure.
*

Word Comprehension


There were scads and scores of words
that I had at my command.
I could command them that was a fact;
comprehend them that was an illusion.

My sponsor had every confidence in me
and started my word comprehension lessons
with the tough ones first:
“No,” she would ask,
“What don’t you understand the Nnnnnn part
or the OHhhhhh part?”
Took me sometime to catch on to words deep as that.

Serenity that I learned through living Braille.
Learned it like any hungry child, by taste.
Learned it like learning the ocean as you swim in it.
Serenity is my ballast and my bail,

As for peace, all I can say is:
No comprehension, no peace;
know comprehension, know peace.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 22


SAFETY IN MY CHAIR

Sometimes I have to sit with my knees tucked up under my chin. My feet can’t touch the floor at these moments. I hug my legs to me, I feel contained but somehow adrift in my chair. I center my mind on breath and pulse. Pure fear flits and flutters while I gain my composure. When I feel safe enough to put one foot down, then the other, and connect with the world again, I am leaving home to embark on this earthly trek. The journey is there for me every day but some days I curl up in my chair.


Complement your feet with your shoes.


*

Patricide

I never killed my father.
Why finish a job that
someone is completing all on his own.

It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead;
I did and do for that matter.
Don’t misunderstand me,
I wish him no harm,

It’s just that he is like a creature so tortured
that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.
Left to live he is a hazard to everyone
he has contact with, an agony to live inside.

What can I wish for him,
but departure and rest,
something he can never give to himself.

I don’t plot, don’t scheme,
I only know; know in part,
the terrible lie he lives
and hurt he drags from place to place

Acting like it is not there and nothing matters;
let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be.

He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god
and I don’t kill that man
but I kill the image, perish that thought.

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

[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.


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

[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.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 2



IF I HAD A SCREWDRIVER


If I had anything other than this hammer, possibly, I would discontinue pounding this helix into the side of my universe. The slot is unused; the flat head of my sledge slams. A wide void is punched into my abyss as the threads are pummeled not turned. If I had picked up the right tools, if they had been displayed within my reach, if my granny had five wheels she might yet be a wagon.
I have picked up new tools but, having never seen them used, I bang with them. Watching others twisting the wrist and angling the elbow, I try to wrap my mind around the posture. Muscles I have never used, laminated to mental configurations unthought of, improvement in workmanship is slow. Many a fine toolbox has remained full and untouched, the mind lacking the dexterity to grasp the in-workings, the body ill-equipped for the outer. If I had a screwdriver, I pray I could bring to it the flexibility of sinew and the nimbleness of wit.


Remember the minutes; they belong to you.

*


Reality and Desire


“I know the difference between desire and reality,”
I whisper to my new found friend.
Who I am and what I am,
are a reality unto themselves,

Your recognition of that
and how you handle said recognition
are for you and God.

The vastness of the true you;
I hope to spend a lifetime surveying;
but not sampling.

What you want and your reality
are not mine to mind or mend.
If you are driving that train this is on you

If HP is the driver all the more incentive
for me to be still, enjoy the ride and await the outcome.
For in the end the question is never,
will you be mine, but what will I be to you.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 3


SWEAT

I turn the desk lamp into the eyes of God. I put question after question to the construct of my childhood concept. “Would you please explain?" Or, "Exactly why did You do this, that, or the other thing?" "Are You now or have You ever been a member of…?” I put the pressure on; the beads of perspiration join, then trickle. I have God in ‘the box.’ I will not relent.
“I don’t understand You," I say disappointedly, as if speaking to a troubling adolescent. “You have so much potential if only You would apply Yourself.” The icon shakes Its head slowly and deliberately; I shake my head, too. So much time has passed and I am no closer to embrace.
“You don’t understand Me,” says God to me. Dawn breaks; I uncuff this mythic creature.
“You are not the one I am looking for. You are free to go.”



New is neutral, not better or worse.
*


Stepping up


I look along the list of names,
look upon the sea of faces.
Are there any whose eyes I avoid?

I gaze across the landscape
are there any craters,
any pock marks, any divots.

I tick through my actions
those I’ve recently taken
checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.

These combined facts and figures
create a portrait of my day;
I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.
If I can smile at what I see
all is well if not I begin the repair.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 4



DICHOTOMY’S EMBRACE


Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?
Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?



Write a collage.

*

The Horse of a Different Stripe



When I arrived at the horse and pony show,
I saw all there was to see;
there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.

Yet I couldn’t help but return
to this particular zebra,
the spark of my imagination,
the inspiration of my dreams.

There was no help for me,
I want what I want and need what I need.
It was all about spirit, all about soul.

The fire in its eyes matched
the burning of my heart,
ignition at the point of recognition.

Then I stumble, then I fall,
bad behavior and wrong thinking,
the selfishness of the self-involved
takes hold and runs my mouth, “

Nice mount, great steed,
But can nothing be done about these stripes?”
The flash in those eyes,
the knowing knickers, said it all.

I was trying to stay in my small place
and that would never work with her,
if I wanted the Zebra,
I had to be willing to go to Africa.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 5


AND I BELIEVE YOU

“This will be easy,” says my sponsor.
“Oh, yes. Simplicity itself. I’m sure,” I respond. “I’ve participated in these plans before.”
“We get good results,” she retorts.
“I love how you pick goals, which are intellectual straight lines and emotional roller coasters. You do it with an open face, not a modicum of guilt.”
“Why should I feel guilty? You keep getting better; I keep staying sober. What is there to feel bad about?”
“The guileless look on your face; I fall for it every time, but no more. I know you’re cunning. You know this will be hard. I remember when we worked on honesty. What could have been simpler? Or hope, how sweet a concept. After thirty rounds on the floor with setting limits, I realized you’re like the bean seller that Jack met. You say they are magic beans and I believe you. You say they will grow to the sky. I know they will and I will climb them. Just don’t tell me it will be easy.”


Write an advertisement for your best quality.
*



A Duck Trying to Teach a Fish to Swim



Just because you’ve been in the water
doesn’t mean you know how to swim.
Just because you swim in the water
doesn’t mean you can teach me how.

Floating on top and plunging your head
under the surface occasionally
doesn’t qualify you to safe guard me.

Poaching is unpleasant to those of us caught,
we that were foolish enough to believe
that birds of a feather can teach school
are picked off and swallowed
by the benevolence of so much quack.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 6



MOAT

I dug the moat; the alligators came on their own. The rain fell; I did not bid it. I’ve burned all the bridges. I’ve sold the farm. I wonder at the company I keep. The birds fly in; some stay for a season. Friends used to wave as they passed. Now my island is overgrown; I stand to my chin in the tall grass. I guess it’s a matter of maintenance. What I don’t keep pruned grows back. The connections I don’t secure weaken and fail. I am subject to all that falls if I don’t keep my roof. The wind chaps me without the walls of my home. No clothes, I burn. No joy and all I do is cry. It takes more than a continuous ditch to protect my heart. More than water and reptiles to safeguard my soul.


Memorize an affirmation for a pet.


*


What and When, When and How……and Why


Arriving at the place where I have nothing to prove,
afforded me the luxury of not having to proclaim
the amount of time I have, when I share in a meeting.

Taking the score keeping out of the equation
I was then able to think of what it was
that motivated me to speak in a meeting.

Self-Possession, a great gift to inhabit,
a greater gift to demonstrate;
quiet dignity is a real favorite of mine.

If I am calm yet in control,
if there is time, if there is a lull,
I can share parts of my experience.

If I have chaos, an agenda, a theory, a grudge
it is all better left unsaid in the meeting
and saved for the less vulnerable ear of my sponsor.

For if I am wrong I might persuade in error
and if I am right I might convert in righteousness.
Why is it that what I never say
rings louder than anything I do?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 23



COMING TO THE TABLE

For many years, decades even, I stacked the table against myself and others. I piled the sacred next to trifles; I deposited item after item and built towers to confusion. After years of sobriety, I sorted the piles in earnest. I made a place for myself at the table. It is amazing what I can accomplish with a seat and a surface. Over months, tediously separating the needed from the useless, I made a place for others at the table. There is a whole world of life I had missed while trying to keep myself safe from unrealistic expectations---expectations of who I am and what I can do, what I should do and who I should do it for.
Having strong boundaries and a clean table is like a homecoming. I am coming home to me. The good games and happy meals had at this table are unexpected and surely welcome. The wall I built held good times at bay because I could not keep the flood of trash from spilling in from every direction. I had to learn to hold my head up before I could look around.


Invent a new language to talk to yourself in.
*


Ace

Like an ace in my pocket
step one is the beginning
and end of my step work.

This step carries the high and low count;
its rise is so near to the ground
I didn’t have to lift my chin to clear it
as I crawled my way in here,

Its appeal so exalted that it is all I hear
when I finish the twelfth
and am on my way back around.
the high and low of any hand.

Plus the card I keep up my sleeve for emergencies.
The greatest blessing is I don’t need four of a kind,
not even a pair; as long as I have step one.

I am guaranteed a full house, full heart and full life
between you and me that’s just how I like it.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 24



DOMINOES

What happens to the dominoes that do not fall, the show cut short by my sobriety? The tiles stand front to back; the least foul respiration will send them to their preordained destination. I hold my breath as I glance over the display of generations. The design is set. Painstaking patterns lain with meticulous, ingenious deft. Skill for falling, laying waste. Sad pictures told and retold in speedy drops. The rhythmic fall of dominoes turning eight blocks to a corner. Direction shifts but the descending continues. I can not occupy this ground. I must not upset the arrangement. I can not clear it from this world. I must walk away from the upright mosaic, a flower waiting to bloom with destruction. I have to move. Climb the steep slopes. Vertical life, leaving the tumbling destruction for Yet. Grasping the sides of the cliffs, I haul myself off the tableland, a place set for a show of lying down. I build my strength and keep off the well-known flats. This is a life apart. The game is there if I return. It is a game no one can win.



Carry yourself.


*


Over Troubled Water

Though God might be everything,
for a long time God was a resident
of an unknown country;
a theoretical citizen of a theoretical land.
It took some time for me to spy yon distant country
and longer to realize what a miracle it was
that I could see my neighbor,
holding my optics turned around the way they were.

Turning over the binoculars came long before
introductions or interaction, but it was an important step
in relationship building nonetheless.

Having seen the island my mind fled
due to the trumped up stories about its resident.
Open minded observation cleared up the fallacies
of ogres and super heroes,

But this only told me who God wasn’t
and nothing of who God is.
Direct knowledge was going to require direct contact.

I began throwing tethered balls of string
across the channel that separates us
and was shocked, delighted, horrified
to find that the far end would get tied to the far shore.

I threw twine next, then rope,
after a few successful repetitions
I was able to shinny across for the first time.

Filled with fear and trepidation
I arrived on the opposing bank
and stood shivering more from nerves than cold.

I saw no one and felt much.
I didn’t stay long and swam back.

The first plank bridge was simple and straight.
Having this link somehow emboldened me
to explore the land of my own country.
With great regularity I found narrow margins.

I crafted a new bridge for each slender passage.
The more I learn about me
the more regular my connection to that inner land.

Like something shy of my wrath,
God made an illusive sight.
The more I calmed the more often the sightings.

We made acquaintance and then we made friends.
I’ve widened some bridges and God has widened others.
We stroll together often hand in hand.
We talk and laugh, cry and joke.

Occupancy is fluid, times I live on the island
and others the surrounding continent
sometimes we live together
other times we are one another’s quests.

All the days are not happy ones
but we are always happy to be together
and more than that I will not ask.


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