Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 26


Green Wood

When a nail is hammered into a living tree, the tree is forever changed. Even if the barb is pulled out the tree will never be the same. If the spike remains and the tree lives; over time the nail will be incorporated, the tree will get on with the business of living and carry the thing as just a part of what it took to get here. What was trauma is trauma, but life is big and the longer it gets the larger the life, is the hope. Piercing experience is engulfed by rings of fresh wood and a will to grow beyond the moment of impact. The tree branches out and even a hundred nails can’t stop that.


Educate domination when you can and cage it when you have to

*

VIRGINIA CREEPER

In a clearing grows a vine
As seasons change the leaves turn pale.
This type of vine grows throughout the woods
But does it grow pale everywhere
Or only in this sunlit space?

I see the trembling of the lovely foliage
And wonder the destiny of the flora.
Does growth have a will of it own?
Does it grow to light or is it a must?

Can I turn my face
Even if Virginia Creeper cannot?
And if I can------------
Should I just to prove a point?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 27


One Street off Amory

Apology holds change at arms length. Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for as a sign that things will improve, but apology is not a harbinger of change it is quite the opposite it is the guarantor of business as usual; no amendment need occur, apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration. Without variation we all stay sick and apologizing for that won’t get us better. Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution these are the things which make the world bright, apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass.


Put down your bat, skip your rope
*

ALSO A GIFT

Sadness is as life affirming as joy
But in the same way that people eat together
But defecate alone, joy is encouraged in public
And sadness is a private matter.

Happiness is embraced and discouragement relegated
Even though personal experience shows disappointment
Is often a point of growth.

What beauty and change stem from disillusion
But still it is hard to look directly
At grief and not flinch away.
The temptation to fain pleasure
And leave sadness swept under the carpet is strong.

It is an unwelcome job to be the defender of grief
A job which should be unnecessary to defend
We are not giants who can step
From one mountaintop to the next.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 28


A Verse to the Wise

Encoding truth into poetry makes reality survivable by giving readers the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds. Throwing certainty in peoples faces like cold water gives them a wake up call but nothing to embrace. The beauty of semaphore is the dance that need not be understood by everyone who sees it. Communication through device leaves headroom and breathing space while acceptance might be reached. The current of a conversation often leads me to face the facts, but a tsunami of candor could drown me.


Exhaust reaction with reason


*
DENY ONE---DENY THE OTHER

If you want to deny the problem
By necessity you must deny the solution.
Resolving a problem whose existence is rejected
Creates a split in the crust of collusion.

Often times the convolution and reconvolution of addiction
Causes a bloated roiling mass
That rolls through the streets of sanity.
How can a wedge be cut in a creature so dense.

How can I work on piecing together remedies
When I am readily assured by fellow sufferers
There is NO DISEASE?
Can I trust my personal depletions?

Can I employ faith to a resolution
When faith is utilized to fortify
The contagion I’m told doesn’t exist
But if not faith what?

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 29


Kicks

New balance is more than a brand of sneakers. New balance is a joyful revelation made possible through constant vigilance. I am tap dancing into a vision, no more soft shoed wishfulness. I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture; my musculature robust from climbing the steps and accepting direction. This bright tempo delights me; I feel stretched, supple, able bodied. Life off the balance beam offers me the world in which to embrace my equilibrium.


Pick up your toys, pick up your chin and move on

*
CATCH

How can my sensibility catch my intellect
Or find a map with enough information
To get my heart to the current location of my mind?

What are the common markers recognized by soul and brain?
I know the pulse of my wrist
Is counter pointing the firing of my synapses.

My life signs run their course
And I struggle to find the intersections
I long for more than signposts and curbing.

I would like parallels, paradigms and conclusions
There must be a place of common home and hearth.
I am looking for the depot of my life
I hope I hit it before I hit the coast.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 30


Moniker

The Hurt carry on the tradition, would never think to give it up, don’t even know there is that option, strap on their weapons without a second thought. How can there be a second thought when there never was a first. Hurt is a reflex and it moves its way through the world like dominoes tumbling; everything’s knocked down before you ever saw it standing. So, what’s the use anyway? So, I fall down and in that action push you forward and we are all together in the mud, but it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud, including myself and especially you. If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see anything about you except my wish for your departure, which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt I can’t afford to feel. If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything, but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon, so I must break tradition and the first step toward that is seeing it and the second is calling it by its name.


Open up your secret vault and unload

*

BATTLESHIP

If the first is a guess, what is the second?
Paranoia or worse.?
Action is a blessing, reaction a debilitation
And to twist from reaction to self-doubt
Sinks the battle and the battleship.

When I can’t make sense, the gift is stepping back,
Better to put my hand down than to lose the farm.
When I find myself in a minefield I can walk gingerly
Or wait for aid to come from above, air rescue or other.

The option of rethinking every step sets me dancing
The tune which begins this hurky jerky polka of death which
Stems from the metronome of criticism playing in my ear.

When I am overwhelmed with critique
I give up acceptance of chance or joy of spontaneity
Throwing myself into a pit of apprehension.
I am safer being wrong occasionally
Then unsure forever


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 1


No Substitute for Fire

I wanted alcohol to do better for me than burning did. I was constantly disappointed, yet I kept trying. I was not to find pleasure in that bottle though I had no problem finding addiction there. This is how I came to believe that there is not an upside to everything. Booze took me to surprising destinations, but never the ones I desired. I sought release, the release I got from a wildfire spreading across my skin and this might have been mine had I poured the liquor on rather than in. But in me it did no good, it never let me exhale the way that the “right” kind of pain did. What I got from alcohol drove me though; fear rode me roughshod and I found my way home, it was a bumpy road, but once there we doused the flames and I live the upside I had come to doubt, because fire is no substitute for life.


Randomize the alphabet, then write
*

MY MOON

I anticipate the crowning of your face
As you birth the sky.
Your rhythmic visitation sates me.
The gravity of my need keeps you close.
The tide of my heart pulls you from shore to shore.

We live in the sweet ecstasy of tethered love
Our souls slingshoting across the open palm of heaven
Your empathy for me transforms these shards of ice
To a tender heart satelliteing

I orbit you
Empowered by your kindness
You are my moon.


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

[Daktari]

18months clean yesterday. Picked up my grey key fob at last night's meeting. :cheesy:

A day at a time, we do recover.

Couldn't have got here on my own.

#miracleshappen

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 2


Saltbox House

Refusing to make reasonable demands is quite as dysfunctional as making unreasonable demands. The opposite of an extreme is often twice as crazy and harder to explain. I open my mouth and dry toast is the reply. Nothing should be said when nothing can be done and to do nothing is harder than one might think. I fold my hands but my lap rejects them; I quiet my mind but my soul objects. I must let my heart sing and trust you enough to ask for help.


Check your speed and direction

*

REJECTION

Rejection as a game of endurance,
A boundary enhancing process
A test of survival
Rejection sought or unsought is a challenge.

Sometimes rejection is a flare
Lighting the need for change of tactics or direction.
Though it is hard to view rejection as a beacon
Rather than condemnation.

Rejection is also the counterbalance for acceptance.
Risk is nothing if rejection is not part of the equation
I cannot value yes if you could not say NO.

Rejection is the safety valve
For putting myself in situations where I don’t belong.
I get sent back to the world of possibilities when the kindness of rejection
Ejects me from wrong choice.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 3


Sackcloth

Tragedy is a tale unfinished. Life is far longer than calamity can endure. I will not give up, not even when hope is lost, for life carries forward; more is filled with optimism. Threads break, but the fabric is woven still, flowing off the living loom waiting to be used. I will cut my swath and fashion a garment to wear and if sometimes it is filled with ashes I will sit and grieve all the while knowing that this is never the stories end.


See through your own shades


*
AMENDS

Amends is about truth and change.
The relationships of my past
Were places of little truth
And even less change.

I tried to be nice----not honest
I tried to keep things going
Even when they needed to die.

Making amends has ended
Most of my relationships from the past.
A quick 10th step keeps me
From starting too many new ones.

Good healthy relationships
Require time and attention
So this necessitates a short list.

Sometimes I wish for more quantity
But I realize in sobriety
I cannot accept less quality.


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

[Softquietfemme]

18months clean yesterday. Picked up my grey key fob at last night's meeting. :cheesy:

A day at a time, we do recover.

Couldn't have got here on my own.

#miracleshappen

I am very happy for you... Congratulations... It is a tough journey but none of us walks alone and the rewards are many...

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 4


Have Faith

Strange and wonderful tragedy takes you away from me and I don’t know how it is that you return, but you do and I thank G-d, but I’m not sure it was G-d’s idea that you went away or that you came back, though, I am sure, He missed you every bit as much as I did. I revolve the freshness of you in my mouth like candy; I swirl, but don’t want to crack it open. Honeymoons are for people who live comprehendible lives; we fly to each other and cling like raptors plummeting to the ground. You leave your mark upon me I do the same for you; we are none the worse for the wear. I stand in the gush from the hydrant, soaked in the pleasure, forgoing the safety. The world may burn down again tomorrow, I remember that it has before, but I am wiser for the singeing and weathered with soot in my eyes and charcoal piled roundabout my legs, yet I’m still standing and you are back from the dead and I think of you as Lazarus. And now we will live the comedy for life is what lay ahead, we took the hit of death before its time and so must be off the hook for the rest.


Try not to long for Santa

*

FISHING FOR CONTENTMENT

Fishing for contentment
Is a wonderful past time.
But what is used for bait?

Is there a delicacy
To dangle before contentment
To lure it into my life?

Can I crumble the best biscotti
And leave a trail to my door?
I don’t believe contentment
Swims around waiting to be caught.

I think it’s more like the wild yeast
That finds its way to my starter.
If I put the ingredients in my life
Contentment will rise to the occasion.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 5


Jeopardy

Today I tore down the isolation booth. I didn’t live in there exactly; sometimes I stuffed G-d in there and went out for a ride. I left that shack stand for far, too long; a testimony to ill conceived, ham-handed, control freaks everywhere. I said all I wanted was some peace, but a vacuum is not tranquility and escape won’t substitute either. Since the live studio audience has gone home and the house lights are dimmed, I feel pretty foolish for playing round after round on my own. This game was never any fun and the sponsors were death merchants and scavengers whose interest lay in destruction and nothing else. I must not cast aspersions, I didn’t care that the contest was merely an upright pit with a lethal pendulum, I used it as a hideout and a lair, a place whose walls I could keep between me and my Higher Power and an activity I could depend on to keep me free from living a life. It all came to the ground today; I walk over the splinters and shards, I know there has to be a better game and I’m ready to play.


Picture trouble floating away like bubbles on a river

*
MY HEROINE

The corpse that is my childhood
Is mine to protect from the wolves
And rats of denial and collusion.

The infant who commits suicide
In self-defense is my heroine.
The pure thinking of an uncluttered mind
Seizes on the only possible way for me to survive.

Her death at her own hand is my rescue
If the bad had killed her
I would have died with her.

In her plan I was left as the seed
She ejected in her assent
She is gone from this place
I feel her only as the wisp of memory.

The tiny body laid flat on the carpet
Her pressed pinafore somehow more alive than she is
the unfinished business of prevention.

As long as I see her there and do not walk away
From my responsibility and never forget
She protected me with the life she never lived
I am free to live this life.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 16


Autonomic

Alcoholics in isolation go no place good. Isolation is too expensive to keep; whether it is a bad habit or worse. How do I hold to a receding thing such as this? I am amazed that I accomplish this difficult task and fear my ability to do something simple like breathe. I wonder often why destruction is so seductive when life is fine. Yet, I hear the cloying whispers of lonely isle shores, I must bind myself to friendship and hold firm to companions for the water is no place for me, I have forgone my once liquid life.



Tell yourself a story about what you’ve learned

*

ARCHIMEDES PUT A BOULDER IN MY PATH

Place a lever under the boulder and press down.
Never so hard as to warp the lever.
Move the pivot and push under a new place.

Keep doing this until you have pushed deeply
And well from every aspect of the boulder in you path.
This works every time.

Not because it dislodges the boulder
But because it somehow changes me.
The path may also appear different.

Often the boulder drops from view.
It may not be gone but seems less irretraceable.
My life goes on.

I have found it important to retain my lever and pivot.
There is never just one boulder.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 7


What Oliver Could not Know

One of the complications of being an orphan is not learning about the failings and foibles which visit themselves on all parents. Living estranged from G-d has this same blind spot. When you live with someone day in and day out you understand their dimensions; depravation causes celebrity and the casting of very large shadows in some very odd places. The intimate knowledge of a guardian allows for relaxation and experimentation. Isolation creates an overload of anticipation; fear of risk and the yearning for attention swing a pendulum to the point of weaponry. Familiarity is a breeding ground, which means many things grow. Life in a vacuum is devoid of life and nothing grows up.


Lock away things forever and they only have imaginary meaning

*

HAWAIIAN GRAFFITI

White pebbles spell themselves
across the black of lava grown cold.
Personal announcements proclaim
love, school pride, religious freedom.

The care of placement and consideration of design
make the roadside an on going mineral memo.
What message would I care to share?
What words would prompt me to bring a pail
of crushed marble to the edge of the road.

Is there a truth so urgent I would take time
from paradise to spell it out?
A few more miles and I see the words I live by
strewn down the thoroughfare-------

IT WORKS-----IF YOU WORK IT.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 8


Wasilla

I don’t appreciate those who wear ignorance as a fashion accessory, but then I have to work too hard, not to wear intolerance as a badge of courage, so what can I really say, while I’m on this topic, what kind of game is “Playing Dumb” where do we get with that as the vehicle? I don’t know why grown folks act like corralled farm animals, nor do I comprehend the idea of salvation through unnecessary sacrifice, but here I am in a society riddled with it and I try not to drink in the face of this idiocy. This is a job for which I am unprepared, I have spent so much time feeling my internal lacking that when facing the siphon created by the general public I start looking for a glass and some ice to tinkle, but I have tried this before and it solved nothing. I can climb under this pile of human failing or try to crawl on top, but what I really must learn is to look at it without a drink in my hand.



Count displaced souls
*


REFLECTIONS OF YOU

When people meet me they listen and stare
Then the familiar words tumble from their mouths,
“There is something about you”.

I know it’s the reflection of every person I saw
at the meeting last night, the sober voices that created them
also the mirror of years spent in rooms just the same.

I know this is what is seen in me
the bright light shines on me and the prism of time
fans the colors to my new acquaintance.

I thank my Higher Power for letting me be a
spectral instrument and I am grateful to the fellowship
for shining the light on and through me.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 9


The Problem with the Peter’s Principle

Is there a harsher lesson than learning that love is not the same as trust? This is a fact all the more painful because it is true. Affection is not the safeguard of sanctity. I am learning to steel myself to survive ardor and its blatant disregard for honesty and still I am caught by surprise when the slight of hand is revealed. I think of love as a building material, most use it as a method of clear-cut or a fire which extirpates whatever I hold dear. I can trust people to be who they are and do what they do, but if I have to spend my time watching for the ordeal I have no time for the ecstasy.


Pair your pennies

*

PIECES OF SKY

The sky falls in pieces and clutters around my feet.
Scattered are the moon, stars and sun.
Fear and desire have consumed all the rest.

Great tides of resentment wash away reality
And replace it with allusion and propaganda.
What am I to do when want drives the course?

Satisfaction is unknown, the luminous butterfly
I believed extinct has not yet come to me.
I leave the shards of life to tinkle
As I stumble through them.

I forget to ask for wings of sweet contentment
From unexplored realms.
Paper dreams burn with fervor.
I peer to see what stands behind.

The gracious weather carries me
As a seed to a vaulted canopy,
Celestial spaces, buoyant and fertile I will grow
Away from the rarefied fragments of unrealistic vistas.

Sinking roots deep in cohesion and truth
Pieces of sky melt to rainbows
Home is the nature of things.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 10


The First We

Before powerlessness can be dealt with, before unmanageability can be faced, it is imperative that the “WE” is embraced. It is the first and last job of sobriety. Initially the human “we” is faced and finally the I and Thee, but the full spectrum of “we” is there to allow the creation of possibilities in my life. As the human body is 97% water the recovering alcoholic is 97% “We”. What I could never do on my own; we do with ease. On my own I might not be much but together we are everything!


Obligation is part of the equation not the sum and total


*
ARABIAN DAYS

There are days I feel like Scherazade
And could spin a thousand tales.
Other days I feel my brain grab for its satchel
And exit my ear.

I find it hard to be a hospitable host to all of me
But when I stretch or strain my elbow or knee
I think, oh well, they go out, they go out
But if my brain runs off and leaves me
I am in a serious mess.

I try to be a lover of my mind for when I don’t
I grow small in my heart.
I scent the mental bath water
And lite the little lights
I sing sweet songs.

I wait for a response
I smile broadly to hear
The quick report of Rimsky-Korsakov

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 11


Ping Pong Balls and Possession

I keep an aquarium with a goldfish on my counter and sometimes he splashes my work proving to me that the thing I think I have contained often has a mind of its own. I have heard that goldfish don’t remember much, but mine always knows which side of the tank provides him a view of me. Memory may be reflexive. Assumption possibly is as well. I must keep a fresh account of what is within my grasp and what can swim away. I have heard the many fish tales from the part of me that likes to lie. The scales shimmer and lure me to pretend control when in truth it is all just a game of chance.


Confiscate excuses
*


BIRTH OF AN APPLE

When an apple gives birth what is the result?
Seed or sauce, crunch or crisp?
The act of creation is so much an act of sacrifice
How can it be limited to one delivery?

The children of effort produce fruit of their own.
Who am I to call them other then kin?
How many times have I thrown over bluster for blizzard
But snow is snow.

I can accept every squall if I keep clear and willing
I may finish my days in a winter orchard
If I spend my life picking not choosing.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 12


Message with no Bottle


I found a note while I was cleaning the art cupboard. It was written in my hand. I don’t remember writing it, or thinking it for that matter. The note said, “Total disregard for the survival of your soul” and I have no idea if it was a warning or a suggestion; a place to start or a destination at which not to arrive. If it was written during one of those dark days it could be the former, I hope it is the latter; a sign post on my recovery road. I bring it out here to write to you about it, share it and take me to a place where I am no longer alone with this flyer. I sit down to the keyboard lift the note to read it again with care. I scan the edges for clues and see that it is a memo sheet torn in half and when I flip it, on the back I see, “2 loaves & 5 fishes to feed a multitude” and though I may not believe in that miracle I do believe in this one.


Don’t keep good night sweetness in the bowl, pour it out

*

ABUNDANCE OF WATER

Waterfalls fail the catch basin
And runs off to make mud slide from the hills.
Power showers down but the channels it uses
Are not always beneficial.

High tide with the push of tsunami wipes out the coast.
Water is the stuff of life but God forbid it get out of control
There is no living with it.
I cannot regulate the weather but today I have a plan.

I don’t have to stand out waiting to see how much will come down.
I may not have every contingency covered,
I do have a backup for the worse than average season.
Yes, I did dig myself a French-drain
But I started by not living on the flood plain.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 13


Alarm

I have lived life like one long fire drill. Is there smoke? Not always, but I fear flames. The alarm in my head is with me always and I walk from my life single file and silent. I don’t move on, this is only a drill, ‘I don’t want to take drastic action, this will pass,’ is my constant thought, though, I can not remember a time without the buzz. I have stood outside my life so long practicing in case of an emergency that there is no life to protect. I have been conscientious to the point of being consumed by caution. Balance requires risk. I must be brave enough to have it all.


Remember old leaves turn over, too
*


FISH OF CHAOS

Out of chaos come very tiny fish,
Well maybe not fish but a very swimmy feeling.
How can I go around with my feet off the ground,
My mind racing on a squirrel cage?

Breathing helps, breathing is a place to start.
Once I get breathing regularly I can gingerly probe
With one foot for a place to stand.

The chaos may race around and past my legs
Like so many eels on a summers evening
But with time and practice
I can step from this current as well.
Out of chaos come very tiny fish but I can come out too.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 14


Matching

“Matching calamity for serenity,” is a task requiring attentive diligence. Each tragedy has its unique blast pattern and necessitates a precisely cut cure. Coverage is one concern and depth is another, the weight of the healing atmosphere must equal the corrosive depletion caused by ruin. I have to make available the wound in order to receive the remedy; anytime I camouflage or barricade my injury I have eliminated the opportunity for a corresponding solution. Knowing this fact and answering it with right action is the job of a lifetime, but I cannot think of a more productive use of my time.


Admit to the uniforms you wear

*

SLIPSTREAM

I look in the rearview mirror
I see the headliner and a river flowing out behind me.
Dual viewing is the kind gift of hindsight.

I can see my internal workings and the past laid bare.
The beauty and sadness can transfix me.
I will lose my way if I keep looking back.

I catch glimpses and move my eyes forward.
I can’t advance without a full vision
So I remain grateful for the mirror.
Awareness and cognition, the brakes and the gas
I have the full package.
I just have to make sure to steer.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 15


Fair Fish

Tiny thoughts ping pong around my head hoping to win a goldfish, but what do I need with a five dollar fish? How often do I pay too dearly, for what is merely an animated ornament? When I falter in self-esteem I look to decorate my life through hostage taking and other unfair practices. I know I want to feel safe, know that hiding gives the illusion of that. It’s like the joke told about banging sticks to keep the tigers away. Does it work? Yes, of course as long as you are in a place with no tigers. I can distract myself, but I can not distract life; life goes on and takes me with it, no matter my disguise. Given this I can either; spend my time with a blindfold and a cigarette waiting for the end or walk the midway and go ride the tilt-a-whirl.


Sit still until the day unwinds a little

*

MISSING

The good times we never had but should have.
The pleasantries I endured waiting for pleasure.
I remember you potential with fondness.

The days, the weeks, the years,
I waited for you to grow to me have past
And yet time is what I have -----not you.

Hope is a wonderful thing until it turns on me and bites.
Images I built have tumbled
And colors wash from your portrait

I carefully remind myself
It is the idea of you I miss
Not you.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 16





MCBuddLake


Barefoot smokers sit downstairs chatting on cell phones as I wait. Wait for the Doctor to come and tell me what? Tell me that I am ill or hale based on a hammer hit on the knee and a deep look into my eyes and I will leave this place hours late for a life I barely understand but am grateful to be living. Like one of the dancing flowers from Fantasia I am swept down stream, but an amazing journey even while I wait in this six by eight room.





Sprinkle letters on a page and write to them

*
MARMALADE

Marmalade, bitter and sweet, spread across my spiritual toast.
Zest and sticky solution, mix and cover the surface.
I bite down taking in the start of my day.

Past this point anything is possible.
Fame or disaster, a dreary fog filled morning
Or a cloudless afternoon.

See the passing populous
I alternating advance and retreat from this human wall.
Response and responsibility tattletale their way to my reactionary will.

The tightrope sways over the river of potential
Balance is more than a desire, it is a necessity
So I enjoy my breakfast tea.

I watch the marmalade melt as I dip my bread
In my well-steeped brew, the parade will start soon enough
I need this time before I launch into the fray.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 17


Bowman Beach

The swirl with the flash of teeth that I backed away from turned out to be dolphin, but that didn’t make me safer, strangers are strangers no matter who their PR team is. When I am out of my element fear grows long leads and I am bound by these limits. Who I am under new circumstances is a discovery I make as time flies by. Can I swim and play with exuberance or will I drown trying to catch up? I am able and disabled, the line is tied from the back and I don’t know its length. I unreel as much slack as I can and test my reach, but still I must keep my wary eye and be careful of the deep.


Think of something nice to say about a pigeon

*

MISS DIRECTED

I called and rambled at my sponsor.
After a significant time had past she stopped me
And asked--with a tone in her voice--
Why are you calling me?

Startled I replied, for your advice?
Are you sure that’s why you called?
Because I can give you my advice
But I have given advice to you before
And received only a severe case of the
Yeah Buts’-----in return.

I was about to say, yeah but, you don’t understand,
When she cleared her throat to quiet me
And continued what she was saying.
Seems to me you want more than a sober ear
You want Magic.

You want me to take your crazy dramatic thinking
Put it in a hat and pull it out formed as all your dreams
And then you want credit for making it happen.
But Kitten, I have news for you I’m not Mr. Roark
And this is not Fantasy Island.

This is sobriety and you can’t just have your way.
This is when I realized I was a dry drunk.
I don’t know what the first signs are
But I do know when your sponsor asks-
And you’re calling me why? The jig is up.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 18


Where do I live?

Fleeter of foot is my goal. I race to catch the prize thoroughbreds as they flee. I play chase, I win, I lose, I fall in the mud, I break my leg. None of this does anything for the horses either, they are loose and confused; off like a shot, but nowhere to go. I buy better shoes, hire a trainer, put reflective tack on the stallions and the mares. In short I go broke. I had the world of possibilities before me and it ran away; all because I don’t close the barn door.


Sometimes raise your value by stooping

*

OPEN HEARTED GRIEF

Tell a tale of openhearted grief
And closed-minded terror
Bend the limits of misery.

Pour over the damned feelings and tired excuses
Level the cupful of measured terrene
And wipe the drooling face of denial.

The children will not dance tonight
The grass is wet with their tears.
The dogs circle the encampment of desire
And come to sleep when we are settled.

Silly ruffled whimsy won’t carry the freight
But the bus pulls into the drowsy station
Filled with tea lites and pantomime.

The story will close with a hand on the doorknob of hope
An eye on the jelly sandwich of contentment.
Whisper the lullaby to the ones who stay to hear it.

Morning cracks the shell to daytime.
Shattered pieces litter the night
Tremors shade my peace of mind.
Sum up the analogies of broken hearts and twisted minds.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 19


Earl Grey is not my Friend

Scabby knees is what I look for; I need to be with those who climb, not those who slide. I hate to say it, but looking cool and sitting on the sidelines does nothing for me or my sobriety. I have to build those calluses, require patches in my clothes, carry a hammer to pound in those spikes. If I don’t see tools in your hands and bodily evidence that you have been using them, I really don’t have time for you. This is a “let’s go, lets go” kind of recovery for me and if it isn’t for you then have fun and I hope you have a good seat, but I am not staying for your tea party; I have no time for tarts.


Explain the difference between a rabbit and a bunny

*

SLOTH TOES

A sloth is known by the number of its toes
Not its name or love of art or music.
The oddest attributes draw attention and acclaim
From scorekeepers and flag-wavers of the world.

Going my way in this life I am seen by clock-watchers
As timeless and by trumpeters as soundless.
I am not defined by these.

The number of my toes or the time I keep
Or the sound I make is more than who I am.
An explanation of me will not fit on an index card
Or nameplate or job title.

As long as I stay clear of these traps
And classifications I am safe.
If I buy in or fall down
My sum and total will neatly fit on a toe tag.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 20


Self Importance

When I am over sensitive and everything that everyone does looms large for me, I am more likely to think that I am a driving force in the lives of others. It’s a funny connection in the same way that when I scratch the dogs tummy her foot paddles; when I am not getting my needs met I tend to believe I am in this world to meet the needs of others. Often when in this mindset I also delude myself further to worry that I may be the only person who can help these other people. I have been training myself to throw a flag on any and all plays where I am that important. I try to bring all action to a stop and get right sized about who I am and how important I am and to whom and why. It’s not that I don’t have value, I have the same value as everyone else, but when I shortchange my needs and my feelings, over responsibility to others mushrooms and this is not good for anyone; me least of all. As with most things, if I find out what is right for me it tends to be right for those around me, even if I can’t see that at the time.


Frame your favorite moments
*

VICTORY

Victory is a funny thing,
Bursting across the finish line
Ends the joyful competition
And begins the wait until the next endeavor.

Pushing for success
Drops my life off the radar screen.
Power can propel me out of range
The center of my life overshot
In an attempt to be a winner.

I am stripped of my commonality
In striving for singularity.
Looking for acclaim leaves me lonely.
The winners circle is very small
And while the flash explodes
The development shows I am now alone.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 21


Resilience

When I experience trauma or drama my heart and soul return to the toddler state; I feel the urge to stay up and push forward. I resist help and rest. I try to override animal need in favor of intellectual prowess. Bleary eyed and red-faced, I soldier on, only to manage to make my life into a ceaseless fight. My charm and wit wear thin; then wear out. I need to recharge my batteries, need to hit reset and restore my default settings. It is hard for me to accept that I must lie down in order to get up again. Restoration is impossible to achieve from my battle stance. Resilience is a bouncing ball. What I want to rise I must first throw down.


Sweetly kiss the past goodbye
*



SPONTANEOUS WILLINGNESS

At my local coffee-mart there is a strip of cellophane tape
Adhered to the mid of a Plexiglas panel
Built into the barrier where the line forms.
Only at a certain angle can this satin finish tape be seen.

When I first caught a glimpse of it I recognized
Others had stood there and responded
To the sight of this strip by prying bits of the edge
With fingernails---I was drawn to do the same.

I could not pull much up but each time I stand there
I work diligently for the moments it takes to make it
To the head of the line and be on my way.
Unseen others pull fragments while I’m away.

Over time we will accomplish this task
Unbidden, unknown to each other
Except through this common goal
Spontaneous willingness to do what can be done


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 22


Canine Comprehension

I wonder what it is that the dog knows. True love, quantum physics, the ratio of lift to thrust required to make the ball fly, how food shared from my plate is better than food from her bowl. This begs the next question. What do I really know; song lyrics, nursery rhymes, old scores from old grudges? What I hope I have learned; is the space it takes to keep an open mind, the willingness required to make a real change, and the width, depth and breath of honest affection. If I haven’t learned these things I will put them at the top of my list of things to do. Because I believe I can teach this old dog a few new tricks.


Not all friends are friendly
*


CONTROL

I have everything in the world but control
And yet it seems to be the only thing I yearn for.
Past history has made it difficult for me to have faith
And I have clung to scraps of control as in alternative.

I have hope but I have hope in a way
A disgruntled gambler has hope.
The horse may cross the finish line first
But it’s a long shot.

This is the trouble with control, if I could ride the horse
I might be able to exert some sway in the situation
But since my jockeying would only make things worse
My inability to secure the outcome leads me to despair.

And here I am, I am not in the race
I will not risk betting on the horse.
I have no skill accepting the capricious nature of life
And work hard not to be capricious myself.

This may be the crux of my problem
I work so hard to do things right instead of having fun.
I try constantly to keep things from going badly
I focus no time on creating joy in my life.

I may not believe much
But I do believe God wants me happy.
This could be the seed---which starts faith.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 23


Jacks

Born crazy, is that better than becoming deranged? Do birth affects excuse my unrepentant glee? Does irrepressible sardonic wit explain the order of restless exposition? Can you count on Cicadic enthusiasm to carry me, or flightless fancy to keep me down? I am beyond redemption, beyond reception, beyond device. I arrived riddled with chaotic cracks, but I am more than just a glaze and deep down I’m more than sound, so walk with my wild side and your thoughts I’ll rearrange.



When you can’t fill the void, wallpaper

*

BEFORE THE END OF THE ROAD

Before the end of the road tiny stone lay on the side
Freshly painted lines glimmer in this twilight trance.
Walking the macadam, the crunch underfoot
Changes my perspective.

No steering wheel or accelerator
This is ankle express all the way.
Walking the road , step by step, on my own
I am part of the soft and growing world.
Progressing on a plan of separate integrity

Moist, lush wonder, is missed
By the motor speedway I let rule my life
Honeyed sweetness covers the vegetation
Swaying in the undulating air born pulse.

I am tempted to lie down and have a roll
But my role tonight is to reach the end of the road.
When my goal is achieved I may choose
A woodland life or an urban endeavor.

Seeing the end of this path is job enough for now.
Decisions anticipated prior to arrival
Are foolish diversions.
I need to stay, not stray with the dancers in the wind.

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

[purepisces]

My name is Melissa and I'm an alcoholic. My last drink was March 11, 2008. My sobriety date is March 25, 2010, which was the day I went to my first meeting.

Today I wanted nothing more than to stop and pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels and let it take away the heavy emptiness that I'm drowning in right now. How the heck emptiness can feel heavy is beyond me. But, I didn't stop. I came home and played with my dogs. And I wait for the feelings to pass. I've learned that they do pass, if I'll just give it time and feel whatever it is that I'm feeling. I don't have to solve anything today.

Thank you, Sherry, for this thread and for your help 3.5 years ago when I had no idea that life didn't have to be an endless struggle.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 24


Spectrum

The quality of the poetry is so dependant on the quality of the lighting. Improve the color palette and yes, you’ve guessed the result. So, I say to you, “Turn up the lights. Do not write in half-dark grief and limp through the words. Spotlight what you can and illuminate the rest. You needn’t make a sound, needn’t pitch a tent, needn’t build a bridge, though you may, may if you wish and wish is what I do, wish for better light and when the clouds break loose in the sky and let the sun pour, I lift my pen and make it all; for what was needed was this better light.”


Imagine your webbed feet
*


PICK ME SIX NUMBERS

Knowing all the page numbers
And quotes of the Big Book
But not being able to apply them
Is like knowing all the winning lottery numbers
With the inability to buy a ticket.

Telling my story has little or nothing
To do with public speaking
Recovery has so much more to do
With willingness rather than studiousness.

Popularity contest, policing meetings
And service politics are a circus
I have attended far too often.
Empty rooms sporting great curtains
Does not a home make
Comprehension is no substitute for acquiescence


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

[Daktari]

My name is Melissa and I'm an alcoholic. My last drink was March 11, 2008. My sobriety date is March 25, 2010, which was the day I went to my first meeting.

Today I wanted nothing more than to stop and pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels and let it take away the heavy emptiness that I'm drowning in right now. How the heck emptiness can feel heavy is beyond me. But, I didn't stop. I came home and played with my dogs. And I wait for the feelings to pass. I've learned that they do pass, if I'll just give it time and feel whatever it is that I'm feeling. I don't have to solve anything today.

Thank you, Sherry, for this thread and for your help 3.5 years ago when I had no idea that life didn't have to be an endless struggle.

Can't begin to tell you how much I identify right now. *hugs*

This too shall pass
...in God's time, not mine.

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 25


Behind Closed Doors

The children of happy fathers make no sense to me. I have known no such peace. What is it to live in a world where there is a man who likes you, someone who approves? I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see, no ducking, no need to hide, had there been a good man to whom I could turn. The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old, old and different from those kids, mere children, safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.


Dance cheek to cheek with your muse when you can

*

DETAIL DAYS

Detail days seem like lost soulless days.
I sort the piles of endless junk mail
Catch up on bills, letters, laundry.
I don’t leave the house but in someway
I feel like I’m not in my home.

It’s like a day of pulling out all the needles,
Splinters and thorns which accumulate
Under my skin from rough weeks and road rash.
I steel myself to the pain of relief and rescue.

Cleared counters, emptied baskets, finished worry list
Leave me with that newly moved in feel.
Piles overwhelm me but sometimes details define me.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 26


Basket Ball

Idiots out number poets, this is a fact, though I do wonder why. It cannot be an easy lot spending your days in slow witted discharge; I would think they might at least try putting pen to paper. I think I would rather live in a world filled with bad poets rather than drifting on this ship of fools, but the troubadours rise with imbeciles as their cover and poems fall from favor. I wonder how I could make verse a contagion, how could I make it spread? You may laugh at me, but think what some guy did with a broken peach basket and a rubber ball.


Check your gait for swing

*

STRONG WORDS

Serious language, deep language, real language
Helps me by grounding me.
I don’t have to be nice for company
When I can just tell the truth.

I needn’t have guests with virgin ears
Or unrealistic expectations,
I no longer pander to such foolishness.
I know the layered meaning of my words.

I value the intensity of a large vocabulary.
I am not intimidated by prudish co-conspirators
Who stare down pointed noses
At powerful utterances.

Weak words make poor boundaries
And breed victims.
I will not be trapped by niceties
I will speak clearly out of necessity.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 27


Circuit Speaker

It isn’t until I listen long to the Northside poet that I realize there is such a thing as a Chicago accent. I hear it as I never have before. I don’t hear it in my beloved Rodger, hear only the hope he brings to share. As I get ready to walk to the podium I wish that no one hears the Jersey in my voice only the experience I bring to share.


Dance through the mud then clean off your shoes


*
CLINGING

Large bugs cling to the soffits
Upside down as an alternative
To the rain-soaked landscape
I salute their efforts to find security
In a shrinking list of possible locations.

Awkward situations place my fingertips
And toenails holding positions
Trying to avoid life’s harsher choices.
Bitter, chilling options are cheerful alternatives
To no option at all

I can take the difficult positions as an advantage.
I have survived and this is the goal of the game.
I am here--come what may.
I make the best of the worst times so God can help me
Make the best of the best times.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 28


Picard

The little tin whistle I yearn to play squeaks in my head warning that I have no time to learn and a tin whistle though slender is not easy. I think if I had a magic wrinkler for time I might learn, I remember characters that have, but I rethink this and remember I don’t want to win the lottery again. I am too good at too many things and have no time to enjoy their full round pleasure. I have no need for additional longing or extended guilt.



Print your fingers

*

I DON’T SEE HOW

This is the smallest of the fragile excuses I use
To keep from doing things to make me happy.
Petty in a way I would never be with others
I rake my desires and tiny hopes over the coals.

Tired platitudes are plated up as first serves
By my short order short sightedness
Protecting crusted over nonsense
And living the life of a lockout
Not even a squatter on the fringes of my dreams.

I stumble in my efforts
To see hope, joy or my purpose,
Ignoring the fact that I must step from the box
Before I can see the horizon or more.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 29


To Your Health

Health is a pleasure; health restored is celebration girded with gratitude. The shock of illness quickly imbeds itself to an irrefutable unchangeable fact. When this veil is lifted the body responds with glee, the soul with relief touched with disbelief. The satisfaction of being hale is the bedrock and once this is shaken its return is nothing more than astonishing. I am never more aware of the miraculous nature of life than when I feel alive once more after having felt the doom of sickness.


Throw out ancestral trash

*

QUILTER

What more comfort can exist in the world
Than a conglomeration of turned edges and love?
Fancy stitches or not the assembled world of cloth
Stands testament to devotion and diligence.

Careful collections, meaningful to the collector
And mysterious to the possessor,
Fulfill the primal urge to shelter and be safe.
Time is testimony to endurance.

Thread against thread,
Solidarity is strength embracing flexibility.
The bed of life is made and remade daily
With the affection of kind quilters needles of love.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 30


On a Half-shell in Front of Tiffany’s

Pretty petty pearls wait in oysters more perturbed than annoyed. I string my tears for the sake of posterity leaving the dreams to fend for themselves. I am nothing if not splendidly prepared for a life less steeped in wishes than realism. Opening volleys tell a tale of round irritation, but I am not finished just yet. Joy comes from surpassing obstacles and wearing healed grief as precious gems around my neck.



Pick a retirement home for your critics

*

EIGHT MISTAKES CLOSER

I am eight mistakes closer to perfection.
As long as I fall forward, progress is being made.
I fail meticulously toward my goal
More cannot be asked.

Loss, pain, frustration are strong teachers and motivators.
I suck each splinter for knowledge,
Extracting juice from every fragment for information.
In spite of sprains and strains I have stretched
Attaining almost my full height.

Growth is a wonderful thing though cost is always involved.
Mistakes are an unavoidable price
But well worth the expense.
They are an expense which pays dividends
Dividends that move me towards perfection.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

October 31


Halloween

“Why does self-centered fear wear a costume that looks so much like ‘other people’s opinion’?” I asked my sponsor.
“For the same reason that booze masquerades as ‘a good time.’ How would you ever fall into a pit which used no pretense? Naked ambition attracts far fewer devotees than addicts of ‘must make Mama and Daddy proud’ or the ‘doing better for my kids crowd’.”
“Ambition is not all together bad!” I crow.
“Neither is fear in its proper scale, but fear cloaks itself to seize more than its share of your life, just like any parasite. So take your spring tonic like a good kid and keep the worms at bay.”


Don’t bother licking the self stick stamps

*

FLORAL ECSTASY

I could eat fields of buttercups
And drink down ponds of water lilies.
Wear foxgloves and a pair of lady slippers
I could wrap myself in bridal wreathe
And under pin with nettles.

I could rise with the roses
Lay with the lilies
Shade with the sage
Sing with the trumpet vines

Run away from home
With a Turks cap on my head
And a pansy in my pocket
Until the four o’clock say
Its time to come home.
For evening primrose and then bed.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 1


Entrenched

I have dug myself a trench and invited my friends and family. Truth is, I drug many and tricked others and there they are in the trench I have so recently climbed out of. It is a nasty place and I feel horribly responsible, but here is the sacred truth; I can’t climb down there again, not even on a rescue mission. I am obligated to help them, this is for sure, but the fact still remains that it is not safe to get into the water with a drowning person, even if I am the one who caused the drowning. If I am to be of any help at all I must get my footing and keep it safely on the bank and only then might I be able to throw down a rope or lend a hand to anyone, especially those I love. I pray for the sturdy stance of helpful strangers and try my best to cause no further harm, more than that will have to wait until my cleats are soundly lodged into the earth and my head is squarely upon my shoulders, for headlong and mud covered I am no help.


Topple trivial towers
*

MY MOTHERS FACE

The way that age pours down my mothers face
When she is sad reminds me
That grief runs through my blood.

Generation after generation
Has been transfused with anxious woe.
Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear.
There is no easy way
To round the bend on sharp pointed issues
The route is circuitous.

I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back
To a place where my mothers eyes sparkle
As they squint closed with her smile.
The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries.
We must close ranks between the ages
To keep the joy from sheeting off our skin
And keep the sadness in proportion.

Restore us to our possible bliss
We can over take ecstasy from there.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 2


Desert Island

When I am left to amuse myself, more often than not I turn my wicked wit to redress those whose neglect, I sorely feel; this is childish. This is pointless and yet I do it and do it well. I am, too good at being alone and I resent it and resent every necessity for honing that skill set. When in the past I have made my mind up to accept seclusion each overture is a slashing intrusion. I am not a happy medium, though I do doubt if such a thing exists. I am an attention seeker when I am not I am an isolation monger. The wavering nature of human interaction is an uncertain sea for me, alternating downing me or leaving me washed- up on some remote shore. Even amid those I love the most, I am a skinless writhing neonate, hyper-reactive and living on the edge. I somehow know the answer is self-esteem or spiritual development, but when in the midst of this imprudent reaction the paths to these are lost. I try to hold my breath when underwater, when on the beach I try not to breathe the sand. If I survive today I may grow out of this tomorrow.


Make peace with your pillow before bedtime

*

DESERVING

Tender toes crushed by moving memories
Fresh pain from ancient injuries
Shock incurred from these lifeless reminiscence
Unhappy reconstructions slap inspecting faces.

The people who stood by
To let the chips fall where they may
Try to pretend innocent bystanders now
That shit is falling from the sky.

Unexposed skin will burn when the flames leap high
Idiotic excuses will not retard the fire
Of injustice coming to call
Too late tears carry no freight with the past recipients
Of the “It all runs down hill” award.

Cowards make themselves cripples
And fracture at the force of incoming reality
And deserve more than they get.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 3


Liminal


Not everything which is birthed arrives here alive; sometimes struggle is answered with stillness. I love thee in thy loss for there is no life to love thee in. Hope can be a bubble that breaks returning to whatever it was before that perfect roundness and yet the roundness is not a mistake. Reflected beauty is beauty all the same. Some sparks aren’t meant to become flames, but their glow still warms my eye.



Wage old wars only in the past and never in the present



*

DOWN THE UPSIDE

On the downside of a rising star there is too much fear
Anticipation is recommended for ascent, delight should be encouraged
But all out alarm is usually sounded whether it is needed or not.

Panic dims the shining pleasure of mounting the sky.
Refuting celestial status, denying astral projection, I renounce myself.
Attaining height, my position in space is apparent
To bystanders and onlookers.

I need to ride the comet and accept fate my nemesis
Fortune shines on me
I should not squint away kismet.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 4


Bride in a Bentley

Who determines your worth, the one who sets your ransom or the one who pays it? Will you recognize yourself once you have been bought and paid for? Will your life exist upon your return? How many times has the road and its inhabitance taken me far from what I’ve known and extorted an exorbitant remuneration for restoration? Redeemed is what they call it when the price is met, yet this might not be the feeling it evokes. Deliverance is never 100% and reclamation is not always possible, so keep your mind free, but know your own worth.


Count the fingers on one hand

*


TIMELY

Spent a minute to rub the sleep
Gently from your eyes.
Spend an hour smoothing lotion
From one end to the other.

Spend a week researching your goals
Dreams and hopes.
Spend a month routing energy
To a viable flow.

Spend a life living it
Your life is worth all the time you have
Take it.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 5


MISS DIRECTED

I called and rambled at my sponsor. After a significant time had passed, she stopped me and asked with a tone in her voice, “and why are you calling me?”
Startled, I replied, “for your advice!”
“Are you sure that’s why you called? Because I can give you my advice, but I have given advice to you before and received only a severe case of the ‘Yeah, Buts’ in return.”
I was about to say ‘yeah, but you don’t understand’ when she cleared her throat to quiet me and continued what she was saying. “Seems to me you really want more than a sober ear, you want magic. You want me to take your crazy, dramatic thinking, put it in a hat and pull it out formed, as all your dreams, and then you want credit for making it happen. But, Kitten, I have news for you, I’m not Mr. Roark and this is not Fantasy Island. This is sobriety and you can’t just have your way.”
This is when I realized I was on a dry drunk. I don’t know what the first signs are, but I do know when your sponsor asks, “and you’re calling me, why?” the jig is up.


Time your stubbornness

*

MAIL FRAUD

The open envelope alludes to the tampering I suspect.
Too bad my critics are snooping not my supporters.
When they are finished tearing open my mail
They tear me apart as well.

Shredded, I feel unable to handle further correspondence
I shut down communications
There is no channel for benefactors to travel.
My champions are at a loss
To defend me from my opponents
The struggle flounders.

Misunderstanding the meaning of messages
I have been mocked and enslaved.
I would love to vanquish my foes
But you see I am opening my own mail.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 6


Natural Law

The boat captain can’t change the river; navigate it possibly, but rule it never. Birds don’t control the wind, only capitalize on it. I can’t reign my sobriety; I just get to take the ride. My choices greatly affect the quality of this journey but not the nature of recovery itself. I am powerless over gravity but am thrilled at my ability to use it to my advantage.


Desperate imitation is just that

*

MEMORIAL DAY

Veteran of the addiction wars
I have scars but few metals.
I don’t need a purple heart
Mine is black and blue.
I don’t keep trophies either
No empty bottles or old syringes.

Hostages I have released them too.
I found often they held me
From what my life could be.
I wear my defects and wave my flag.

I am slowly learning to live in peacetime.
The big battles have been won.
It is up to me to stop replaying
The scenes of engagement.

Armistice is a beautiful thing
Too bad there is no better way to get it.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 7


Let the Groundhog Sing It

Mistakes and poor choices save me from attempting to climb out onto moral high ground. Moral ambiguity keeps me protected from the illusion of relentless righteousness. Lopsided living is a fate I am spared due to my flawed execution of perfection; all in a days work for a functional human. Left by the wayside is the fantasy that I am all right.


Be a timekeeper and a dream-maker

*

NUZZLES OFFERING

Like a vegan kitten who wrestles
Long tailed leaves and twigs
Subduing them and dragging these prizes
To the feet of human parents
I fight paper tigers and bring the tatters
As tributes to my Higher Power.

These bloodless battles are pure practice
Future wars may not be as clean.
I cannot enlist my God
To fight these skirmishes.
I would never believe in one that could.

I accept Deus as creator and cheerleader
But champion-----No
Foliage and foes are mine to fight.
The spoils I bring back
For pats on the head and bragging.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 8


Uggs

This is a big hurdle until it becomes a little step. I will struggle with it as long as it takes for me to see it as something I can conquer a bit at a time, then, often as if by magic, it will melt into curbside snow and I can slosh through it in my boots. I am vanquishing obstacles, which seemed insurmountable mere months ago. I am not so much stronger than I was, but I have stopped feeding the weakness in my mind and this has made all the difference.


Accelerate your willingness

*

FLORAL TROPHIES

Captured pet plants grow in my window
Why these specimens are given such regal care
I suspect but can’t explain.

Delicate shoots pile out of sturdy stalks
Roots force the confines of my decorative pots
How many neighborly blooming faces
Stare into my kitchen greeting me mornings

I am amazed what good company
My leafy friends can be when I am loving myself.
Advantageous to my mental health
I breathe their exhaust and they breathe mine.

Symbiotic we live
I grow and flower
Grateful these plants keep me.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 9


Thief in the Night

The moon ran off the night you left. Instead of west it headed south with you, but I doubt it will stay. You are learning to play a new part, another ill-suited role which I don’t believe you will carry off with much aplomb, though you may have found yourself a kinder critic or a more likened mind. Bad actors have no leg to stand on for critique. What you have taken I can’t expect to return, but what I have gained I will never give up. I don’t think you ever intended me any harm, but protection is something you never provided; something which I was sorely in need of. I was fortunate to return to the house of my father for that is the shelter in which I can breathe.


Ferocity is a gift, but not a toy
*


JELLYFISH AND PEANUT BUTTER CARDS

Jellyfish and peanut butter cards
Make for busy days and cheerful nights
Sunlit at the beach and lantern light
Filled with double-decker solitaire.

Camping as a way of life suits some
As they run from their lives
For the more balanced, camp is a temporary retreat
To the overly invested, camping is an aberration
A threat to the foundation of civilization as we know it.

Though I do dread the feeling of coming back
To the life I love and feeling like a stranger
Temporary disengagement estranges me
From the place, the things, the dog.

I need time away,
Variety of experience,
Expanded horizons
I need my entrenched home life.

I need it all and must accept
The clock never stops running
Anyplace on the planet
Even if I am enjoying a good game
With sticky camp cards, regaling tales of man-of-war.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 10


Come What May

Inevitable things are very much like inedible things; you can’t quite swallow them yet they are hard to throw up. It can’t seem to get here quick enough to comfort my fear nor will it pass with any speed once it has arrived. I am like a boa with a hedgehog as my lunch, the shredding is rightfully dreaded and in no way preventable. Not everything that wings my way is anxiety driven, but I have to admit that some things are. I cannot spend my days wishing the storm clouds away so I will put on my slicker and hunker down for the drenching.


The alleys in your mind are for passage not permanence

*

PRIDE GOETHE BEFORE A FALL

In truth, pride goes wherever it wants, it’s pride.
Pride wanders alone, for no one enjoys its company.
Pride travels far but gets nowhere.
Pride rises above reality and seeps beneath the surface.

When pride wears out, love and honesty poke holes in it.
Until it is grounded and transforms to humility
Pride’s past is remembered with flush and embarrassment.
Recounting yesterday is pride’s unenviable task.
Keeping it from recreation is mine.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 11


Picture Window

When G-d sticks His face in my window it brightens my day. What that shining face looks like in other windows I do not know, but I try to memorize the eyes, the brow, the winning smile before my time is up and the wind shifts. The flash of a friendly face lights up the house, my yard, the corners of my soul. I imbibe the rich glow before it moves on, letting my core charge with incandescence, warming my mettle. I am long and longing for this happy countenance and only when the blocks tumble in my mind do I realize that it is two- way glass in that window and stick my face in it and offer it to G-d.



Today treat oddity as a pearl not a pebble

*

LIKE PEACE

Peace like an elephant on my chest
I can’t breathe but at least we are not fighting.
The rigid air hangs like sheets on the line
Stiff but dry.

Plastered smiles and short salutations
Get us through until bedtime.
But what can hold in standing up
Pours out lying down.

Tender feelings are compressed
And come out only as water
Anger bubbles and brews.

Disappointment lives down deep
And sours the milk of love
There are things worse than cross words.

Moldering, festering, frozen words
Pound spikes in a relationship
Fraught with apprehension.

The truth is I would let these pent up things out
But I don’t trust you and I don’t trust me.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 12


Olive Juice

For whatever the reason olives are often pitted and once they are pit-less there seems to rise an irresistible urge to fill that wound, whether with pimento or children’s cubby little fingers as they fish them from the can. There is an opening, an answer must be found. When I find my center gone I have that same yearning, fill that hole! It is an imperative, a need that must be met no matter how poorly. I will stuff just about anything in that gap; the list is longer than the Bell directory and yet none of it is an adequate replacement for what has gone amiss. So here I stand rife with questions. What to put in there and what to keep out. Is cream cheese preferred to cobwebs? Prosciutto better than ice? Nothing is better than some things and the right thing is better than having given up.


Maple leaves change the world, so do you


*

THE FLYING MIND

When my brain flies out my ear
Destination unknown I am left mentally bereft
I feel intellectual convolution and show no affliction
Other than my inability to fulfill my assignments.

I stare out, sure a ring of blue birds circle my head
Or maybe stars like any other cartoon patsy.
What to do, these parodied wingdings ridicule me privately
Leaving the impression of idiocy with onlookers and supervisors.

My focus and perceptions quaver and I lose my place.
I have to find a way to spot and keep emotional balance,
The way I stay upright during pirouettes
By watching one doorframe or light switch.

I need an unmoving object in a sea of swimming thoughts
I still need to make the mental turns
But this should be much easier
If I stop landing on my face.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 13


Wrong as wrong as wrong can be

To be wrong in my family and in my past meant to be tortured and I prefer death to torture, so being wrong meant death or longing for death. I tried never to be wrong as a way to stave of the desire to leap from tall buildings; I did not turn into superman, wonder woman or mighty mouse through my efforts. I did turn into someone else; I became a cartoon of a real person, two dimensional and overflowing with irrational color. Now I see how wrong, wrong can be. Wrong is not an allowable excuse to be tormented. It can be the turning point for knowledge if I choose or the stairway to something deep dark and ugly; my choice, always my choice.


Quilt your stories and sleep under their protection

*

ASSURANCES OF GULLIVER

Poor Lilliputians and my egg shaped conundrum.
At least they have the strength of their convictions
When I have only pondering to share the space between my ears.

What sense could the world make if there is no right way
And each person is free to open the egg from either end
Or leave the thing intact, having instead maybe a bagel.

I have been looking for the combination to unlock the universe
When possibly it’s an egg shaped thing with no doors or locks
And all that’s left is to break in or out.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 14


Clean Underwear

The ease of the trip is often determined by the quality of the packing. When I am entirely ready travel is easier. I wash the laundry early to give myself a head start. Lay everything out and walk through each day’s needs; roll up my outfits and tuck each into my bag. I try to take less than half of my ‘what if’ worry items and cut short my ‘disaster plan’ thinking. If I pack positive thoughts and clean panties I am fine and if I forget them I can always pick some up along the way.


Retreat is not the same as change

*
THE STORYTELLER

Funny stories I long to share with new friends
Have to be put aside while the core of this entity is built.
Mutual memory is the siding on a house framed in integrity.

Treading together through the past
We strengthen each others perception
Which is the only support
That can be offered without time travel.

We take hands, link arms and wander
Happily towards the future
Having the keys to history jangling in our fists
We can return whenever prudent or necessary.

We forge a fresh path and hope for a pleasant journey
Between us we figure to have slain all the dragons.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 15


When I’m Gone

When I’m gone I hope they’ll say I tried real hard and did my best
But more likely will be the lament; she didn’t live up to her potential.

When I’m gone I pray the song will be one of tinkling bells and uplifted voices
But more likely is a disparate confusion of musical chairs.

When I’m gone I wish that my banner will be raised by knowing arms
But more likely will be a shuffle of my undecipherable notes, then the circular file.

When I’m gone I would like my dreams to fly to the ears and eyes of friends and take refuge
But more likely these dreams will chase me down the long corridor and be nothing but my shadow in the long dark night.


Ask your own questions

*

NAVY DUCK
When the postcard is hung upside down
The plane flies away on its back.
I know one of those irregular days
With the disposition of a bee stung mule
Is on its way to visit me.

I have found diplomacy goes a long way
And when it runs out, humor is the best fall back.
Nothing mean or sophomoric but the ability to laugh
Is a fortune in the face of a bankrupt day.

When the sun sets on these spare and harrowing days
I mortgage strength from tomorrow
And right the picture---then fly right.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 16


Surfs Up

The first time I arrive at the beach the tide is a shock to me. I had no way to anticipate it. As the days pass I calm, realizing there is a rhythm and that the sea won’t escape the shore. Over time I begin to anticipate the movement and then rely on it. I learn to live with the in and out nature of the water lapping the lip of sand; what it brings and what it takes away. I am human. I adapt. I survive. How do I make the jump to blessing the moon? How do I touch the divine?


Forgive your common errors, make note of the uncommon

*

ENDLESS PASTA

Having limits, in a seemingly limitless universe,
makes me feel horribly inadequate.
I am a sad little creature
in the face of overwhelming tasks.

Pressure and unwarranted ego
compress my ability and eager disposition.
I am forced to see there are choices
outside my qualifications and willingness.

Going on in the face of crushing requirements
extrudes my life force into a plateful of capellini
Lying exposed with no gravy to keep me warm
it is hard to realize in this world of wonder and delight
a plate of naked spaghetti can’t do it all.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 17


Induction

I have a massive energy transformer that lives inside me. It is explosive in nature and risky to toy with. But if used properly I can power my whole world with the current which flows through it to me from my Higher Power. If I use it improperly I can melt down my core and burn down my life. The connections are of the utmost importance, insulation is a priority as well. I know that I am conduit and so much more. I must do my part as the carrier and the arbiter of change.


The absence of joy is a sin


*
FLAW IN SNOW

Waiting for snow-
Waiting for cold fingers, slick roads
Warm beds, reading by firelight.

Waiting for proof of lack of control.
Waiting itself proves lack of control.

I can dance the snow dance
And refuse to buy new shovels.
Hang out laundry,
Put out all manner of storm tempters.

Still I cannot force the hand of nature
I must sit with my crystalline optimism
And endure these cloudless skies.

There will be snow
It will fall somewhere
But I mustn’t grow over anxious
Cause it may never snow in Miami.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 18


Who is the Parent?

There are more liars in my head than anywhere else and they will say the most errant nonsense, making it sound totally convincing. First of all they use other people’s inventories to leverage me into believing that I am just what is needed to lift each person’s universe from despair; then they insist that my life will be incomplete until I have saved nations and secured borders, all the while failing to mention the deadly nature of these attempts. None of this is a problem unless I listen. Liars’ lying causes me no trouble until I accept and act on this bunk. This is where a thorough inventory saves the day. When I am clear about the truth of who and what I am I can’t be easily led astray. I know I am G-d’s child and the resemblance can be strong, but today that burden is not mine to carry, so I can stay busy being me.


Cheap advice comes from thinking; dear advice comes from experience

*


LIBERTY, HOPE?

If you had to choose would it be liberty or hope?
Liberty is highly recommended but without hope
How would you know you were at liberty?

Transversely if you had no liberty
How could you have hope?
Removal of liberty removes the possibility of hope.

So why ask for a choice to be made.
Well that’s the joy of liberty, I am free to ask anything,
And you are free to imagine anything and hope for more.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 19


Human Sacrifice

How much does it have to cost me in order for you to feel better? Why is it that my suffering improves your mood? Does it confirm for you that you are not alone when you are feeling scared? Or does it give you the sense that at least you’re not as pitiful as me? Is it pleading that strikes a cord, is it the animal pain which stirs your compassion? What about this scenario completes the cycle for you to be able to move back to your comfort zone? And what happens if I don’t fall to pieces? If I hold my emotions to my chest, take them to my sponsor; in some way keep them from your hungry eyes? Will you move on and leave me behind? Will you climb over the hurdle which currently stands between us? Or will you store away this bitter thing like a rotten nut hidden by a Secret Squirrel?


List your objections and examine them for holes

*

SPRUCE

The gum that grows in trees and trickles down bark,
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.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 20


The Story as a Stowaway

I want to tell you a story, but I want to tell it to you quickly, so I can give it to you and then you can carry it on your way. For what good is my story to you if you must leave it where it lay? Your need to be elsewhere presses on us both and I wish to give you what you can take rather than to try to stall you here for an epic you might never lift and certainly not dream of dragging along. I want you to be on your way and take a part of me with you. I wish to sew myself in your mind; tether my tale to your soul. I believe in forward motion and the need to carry on. Where you’re going I can’t go on my own but I know that if I am funny, quick and lite, part of me goes even to the end of your world and my hope is to help you make it bright.


Apprentice yourself to collaboration

*
MIRACULOUS

Sometimes the blind lead the deaf.
The subtle signs are the bumping into trouble
And the inability to listen to reason.
It is an expedition into disaster.

Unfettered by common sense or boundaries
Tumbles and falls propel this pairing
To unknown destinations.
The attraction is baffling but undeniable.

These pairs can be seen through the ages.
In spite of this confounding coupling
Sometimes the blind find their way
And the deaf hear the call.

Even when they don’t life seems to roll along
But try to keep your eyes and ears open anyway.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 21


Blanda

I know how good a quarterback you are on Monday, safely at home. What were you like on the field, gameday? You act as if seeing your mistakes in retrospect is the same as not having made them, but the game is lost and a rematch is not a do-over. The score is final, whether you accept the stats or not. Defeat does not deter my love of the game and doesn’t diminish my affection for you, but history has been made and I don’t wish to repeat it.


Step aside and let fury pass

*

PERSONAL DICTIONARY

Everyone keeps a dictionary in his or her head.
All the words lay on platters
Each with its own flavor and meaning

There are favorite menus and phrases
Which form warmly in the mouth
And hang sweetly for the ear.

Other vocabulary is exotic, pungent
Occasionally with strong after taste
Or off key ringing
Abundance brings a wealth of conversation
And keeps the cold of boredom at bay.

Free for the taking words grow out of life lived.
When we have lived separately
Even if only in our separate heads
Meanings vary and reference must be checked.

Blue sky is blue sky
But do you speak of azure, cerulean or peacock?
Life is so much show and tell.
Drink the sunshine with your eyes
And flow it out to me with your words.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 22


Generational River

The history in my genes have cut a channel in the rock of existence; I pour through it everyday. I too change the face of life one grain at a time, though I rarely recognize my affect I am so busy running. Damns, ponding, acts of G-d leave their marks for future readings, but I keep moving. The water is never the same twice; it changes even more than the mineral face and yet its liquid life looks more than unchanged from a distance and is a world filled with variety up close. Circle the globe, the sun, the sands of time, the river of life flows from here to there and back again.



Bake pies to warm the crisp apples

*

CARGO LOST, CARGO FOUND

I fill the pallet of a New Years sobriety
And when it has been accomplished
Make a manifest and strap this pallet
With the others on the flatbed of my life.

The cargo is secure and weighty
And there is ample pressure
Where the rubber meets the road.
I maneuver my rig carefully.

I feel assured as I stream
With the traffic on the byways.
The power and magnitude of my transport
Prompts in me over confidence.

I fail to realize variation
In weather or road conditions
Can jeopardize my journey.
Eighteen wheels make for poor cantilever
When traction is lost and top heavy wins out.

In losing the battle of gravity,
Inertia and control, I realize the past
Is not a weight I need to haul.
All that is necessary is the inventory.

I slip the pages into my pocket
And walk the rest of the way.
I am my only freight.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 23


Triumph

G-d and I are experience junkies; part of why I am here is so G-d can take me for a ride, but also for the treat of G-d tucking into the sidecar and letting me take us out for a spin. I am G-d’s audience and G-d is mine; though we are not peers we are comrades. Life is a serious business I am sure and profit and loss are always there to be considered, though I can barely describe to you how much being in love with my creator is a joy, but even better is being the apple of my creator’s eye.



Put resistance on the rack and stretch it

*

MOSAIC

I couldn’t prevent this plate from shattering
so I saved all the pieces, loosing none.
I laid them edge-to-edge and made a design
then secured it with thin-set.

Pieces of pattern framed with grout are seen
as they never could be when this dish was whole.
I am part of this construction
more than just handing china onto the table.

Integrity has been lost
but replaced with fractured openness
The plate has lost personal unity to become
an ingrained part of my personal archeology.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 24


Jet Lagging

Baby’s feet kick in the isle and we are all cocooned in our seats. The movies play and earphones dangle in our ears. We are jetting across the country in our own little worlds. Landing can not happen soon enough for me, not that I want to foreshorten the flight. I just know I have a stack of lives waiting for me and I would like to get back to living them. I have been a week away, a vacation for sure and true but I have my keep to earn, my obligations are many. I hope to have done myself proud when I am through, but until then there is much to do.



Zip up to protect yourself from exposure

*

ORIGINS

Pain filled interactions with people
Better suited to be left alone
Changed me in the way of acceptance.

Retched relationships with people
Made it difficult for me to have a loving
Relationship with the world.

I had imprinted as a fledgling
On sarcasm and ridicule.
Bitter milk starved my expectations
Of kind response.

I could not greet the world eagerly.
Having never embraced the world
I failed to hang on as it turned
I slid on my face and hands.

Mud covered I try to keep an open mind
And attempt a connection
With this spinning orb.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 25


One and One

The person who has nothing is vague. The person who has too much alludes. And these people may falsely mistake one another for kindred when what you draw your conclusions from are the poems, sweet words, which flow out of these divergent folk. A paper house is built, but the living is impossible. Tying strings to dreams doesn’t permit you to fly away to fairy-lands it just leaves you prone to lightening strikes and long wet wicks. What could be the truth unfolded; spread broadly for all to see? Where could the roads so very far apart lead to a home, a hearth, a life? Or is this just a field of fantasy flowers blooming in our minds? Mist is vapor pretending at a marriage to a world it will soon evaporate and leave. You and I are passing ships on a short sad night.


Tip the scales toward optimism

*
THE WAY I DO IT

Cooking by smell.
Parking by ear.
Recovering by touch.

The later has to be done this way
I cannot see into the black-box technology
Which keeps me sober.

Feel through resentments, pain, sadness, joy.
Find myself under a pile of rags
With a match in my hand.

The many times the steps have saved me
From becoming a human torch
Are balanced by the weight of the rope.

Woven from these same rags.
That together we use to drag
One another to safety.

The savory scent of a meal
Or the glee of front row parking
Can’t compare with the tender sense
Of a sober heart.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 26


No Mickey Mouse


The Wonderful World of Disney belonged to normal children; kids with Sunday nights and not the tear filled screaming which punctuated my weekends. I had no time for the creative melodrama built to add interest into the dull little lives of safe little ones. There is no Disney for me; no clean pasteled figures frolicking. I know only the freshened wit of the wizened rabbit and the frenetic slamming of that distorted duck; these are there for me. Teaching me the dark humor of the life I lead; preparing me to laugh at M*A*S*H, yet still never cluing me to the fact that Carroll O’Connor was only teasing, so still I cried to hear his rants, but the dry irony of Hawkeye, war and blood, those I got. I was carefully led there by the Merry Melodies.



Check your mental attic for spiders

*

CLIMBING ON THE ARC

If time swings and the seasons swirl
And I pulse out my existence
Why does the birds wing flap
And rain fall down?

If the song comes from my Mothers lips
And my Father tells his tales
And I dance my heritage with each step I take
Why does the flower open to the bee
And the swan trumpet her way home?

If everything pulls from the ground
And reaches for the light
Then how can I duck my head, hide my heart
And pass this all off as a coincidence.

Am I less than the rain or greater than the swan?
Why can’t I just climb on the arc
And let the continuum spin its web around me
Well, you see I can but will I?



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 27


FIVE FINGERS THAT GOBBLE

It only takes five crayons to turn a tracing of my hand into a turkey and it only takes a few things to change my drunken life into my sober life. Looking back I am amazed how little it has actually taken to transform my life. My drunkenness looks about as much like my sobriety as my hand looks like a turkey but the transformation has taken place. The red, the yellow, the brown, the meetings, the steps, the sponsor, these basics are the bulk. Sometimes it’s the small extras that help push this work of art into the realm of believability. Accents of green, up and down the fingers, or a few bonus phone calls to women outside my network. Anything can be the thing that kicks it over into a plausible and convincing reality. I can never be more than I am, a drunk is always a drunk and a hand is still just a hand, but within each of these things are unimagined possibilities waiting to be explored. Michelangelo believed that sculptures lurked in chunks of stone. I have come to see that a sober woman prowled inside this drunk and every Thanksgiving my hand yearns to put on feathers once again.


Read your own palm
*

ELECTRIC CONNECTIONS

I step into a room and take its currency.
Is the flow good, steady, the pulse even and strong?
Where are the power brokers
And are they sharing the time
Or using their magnetic personalities
To draw the current off others.

I check the complement of resisters.
Examine their stripes and access the possibilities.
I pump energy when I can and take when it is available.
I keep in mind we are all transformers
And change is possible for everyone
As long as we make the connections.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 28


How I’ve come upon the World.

My first exposure to Bogart was as the man who was after Bugs Bunny, and Lauren Bacall was only referred to as Baby. I only ever heard Kaw Liga because Stephen King referenced it too often and I had to go have a listen. I come through the back door on so much of the world and it has served me rather well. Yes, I often feel ignorant, but at least the knowledge never sees me coming and I get the drop on it. There is a quality to not having been spoon-fed, that keeps me sharp and allows for depth. The universe sends me clues and I go investigate. It cuts down on the agendaed learning of the social norms and cuts me a wide swath beyond the common path. There are times when conformity is key; then again it’s a sweet thing to have a choice.


Level inequity

*
TAPERS

I wax poetic and burn the candle at both ends.
I borrow from the beginning, I steal from the end
And come up short; feeling deeply cheated.

I pass myself off as the time-keeper but am the time-pleaser
Arch-traitor selling short the days and hours
For approval not fulfillment.

I put away my true identity, mammal, human, the love of.
I have exchanged it for the mask and cape of the Do-do-doer.
A tragic figure of myth and legend who breaks the spirit
Of everyone who attempts the portrayal.

In spite of this the roads teem with actors
Becoming caricatures of a life less lived.
The world is more than a stage
And I must free powers greater than to be more than an audience.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 29


John Grisham

My time hovering low over the ocean has filled me until I am ready to drop. The weight of what is inside me bears down; I know with the slightest cooperation I will become a rainmaker. I am mostly fine with this; I know from whence the rain was derived and I can let it fall in peace. What I don’t know how to handle is the acknowledgement. The difference between what I know and what you might think is vast and if I try to dissuade you I sound disingenuous or fraudulent. I have to get my head around the part I play and accept the roses when they come. I don’t understand how this looks from offstage or what it means to those who watch. I hope they will enjoy the work but never mistake me for the playwright.



Greet the day with open eyes

*

BLEATING FORMALITY

Stupidity stalks me when I’m tired
Hi-jacking my mouth and my mind
I can put this off to pilot error or interruption
Of service on my neurologic pipeline
But truly I have been captured
By senseless irrational mutinous.

I would love to say it was pig headedness
But alas I am not self-determined, I am a sheep
I open my lips and out pours the same
Plaintive cry as the surrounding herd.

In addition, once begun the wail is unending.
It’s as if the bellows works on its own
Carrying a tune which blends
With the entire wool coated world.

I shift and run with my position
According to the movements at large.
I am following the reactionary breed
Dropping the specifics of my personality
As one of the crowd, my brain switched off
And a quick veneer grows over my eyes

I can’t see, think or speak for myself
And yet it doesn’t occur to me to hit the hay.
When as a petulant three year old
I fall asleep in my tract, I awake as myself,
With many bleating apologies to be made.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

November 30


Precious Cargo

Do I carry myself as well as I could? Do I understand the value of what is contained within me? This journey matters, it requires my attention and comprehension, if only I am able. When I fall short the road changes. The distance I go has much to do with how well and whether I acknowledge the nature of the cargo with which I am imbedded.



If you have to put your foot down; open your fist

*
WHAT IS MINE

The cloud of snow slept in the tree overnight
And poured from the branches with the morning breezes.
Showers of crystal, drop from a clear daylight sky
As a telltale of intentions delayed.

What was meant for moon time
Has been kept till sunshine
A treat for bright eyes and young hearts.
How can I weep over altered destinations?

Arrivals and departures are truly the province
Of poetry and postcards
Not a thing for worry or fretting.

Putty is for forming into an image of my desire not the worlds.
Time is a liquid substance I cannot decant at will.
Shoulds and aughts are parlor games for the bored and senseless.

If I waste my life playing a game I can’t win
I will fail to see what I can’t lose.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 1


Poorly Chirping

She writes poetry like fusion jazz, more fun to make than to listen to. She stands at the podium serving as a bad example. I pray as she reads, “Lord, please don’t let me get sucked into the self-importance of bad poetry for the sake of peering peers, and forgetting to write what is there for the world, the readers, the things which bring the word pictures and sets them before me. Lord, remind me that the writing is not done for me, but done as Billy Collins quotes, for the love of strangers.”

Tops spin, do you?
*

DO WE SEE

The old man walked down the road to see the end,
I followed to glimpse the fruit of his pursuit.
Does the highway come to rest
Or like the river just feed a greater sea?

And time, will the clock stop him?
Can he win the treasure hunt
As the seconds tick away on the metronome?

Will the slowing of his steps
And the advancing of his age
Create a curve which will prevent his accomplishment?

Does this tag-along I am doing
Make me a part of his project?
The road is long and its end may never come, only ours.

When we take the road the road takes us.
More and less is what we are and so too the road.
I follow the contour of the ground
Which curves around the world
Spinning in our sky so we can all see the stars.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 2


At The Dodge

I remember so long ago when I would come and sit and listen; soak in the poets and the Consort, sop it all into the sponge that listened and sat. I did not know exactly what they were doing and I didn’t know why I was there, but I went and had a soak. Now so many years hence I am the writer I never knew and I know just what they do because, I do it too!



Write a poem on your foot

*

GOOSE

I round this corner nearly every day.
There in the field stand a flock of problems,
Pecking the ground and flopping their wings.

Uniform and regular, the honking and squawking
Is undistinguishable from yesterday.

I ponder and squint, are these the same
Or yet another gaggle making their way
Along the migratory path?

Trouble is feral, skulking the edges of the field
But never sheltering in the yard.
I must leave my hands off
Knowing these are not mine.

The feathers fly and I gather the strays
Acutely aware of the ticklish nature of this.

Awkwardly I face the truth
No matter how much of a perplexity this is to me
Or others, it is only geese.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 3


The Twelfth of April

When I met you, you were a power tagged and trapped in a box. A tiger caught by its toe and yet I could do nothing but fall under the spell of your roar. The suppressed growl you leave for me like an invitation I could never decline. I write to you a note of explanation; words testifying to my desire, which I promise to hold back out of respect for you. And a wish to survive my drive toward you and your furious stripes and claws. Your bite which I long to feel, yet know I must not ask for. When I inquire if you have read, you say with sanguine smile, “Read it to me.” When I am done and with tear stained face, all you reply is, “I have lost my taste for anyone but you.”


Keep an ear out for more than danger
*


GOOD SAMARITAN PIE

The meal prepared from my cognition,
The bread and jam of humility, salad of expectation,
Roast of determination and Good Samaritan pie
Wait on the table to be devoured.

The courses pass and come desert, my kindly intentions.
Are cut to wedges and pushed from setting to setting.
I can dollop after dollop cover the requisite desires
Of this tart in attempt to deny my addiction to fixing
Or I can serve up the plain truth.

I help and help, and wander down roads looking
For lost puppies to return to their homes.
I must admit my longing to lend support
Is sometimes half-baked and if kept to home and hearth
It might serve me better and make a sweeter dish.

Assistance is best in proportion to the meal
I must live my life and save my Good Samaritan pie till last.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 4


Relay

I have waited so long for the chase, the trap, the dig a ditch for safety, to be over and here we are; ringed, safe and surrounded. Now the sweet work of living the life we have striven for, striven to. I now long to be my best, do my best, for you are the best for me and I am the best for you. I tense and press against the blocks; the race I wish to run, but all I knew was to wait.


Explain how petals are different from leaves

*

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO CLOSE WINDOWS
OR KEEP THEM OPEN

Not every open window offers a warm and welcome breeze.
There are windows, which greet with arctic blast and little else.
Frosted cheeks and chapped lips I face these frigid openings
Believing it is my lot to forge ahead in this bluster.

Never did I think to shut the glass on this disagreeable weather.
I am allowed to close windows but I didn’t know it.
Every irksome thing that comes my way is not mine to face.

Many things will pass my way.
This does not make them my responsibility
On the other hand, when spring blows honeysuckle through the air
It is a fine idea to prop the window open with a stick.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 5


My Most Important Meal

Sweet potato pudding sits on the plate; I sit in my place and wield my spoon until the plate is clean. I’m fed, my day begins. If this is the best part of my day, life is still sweet and fine. Time skips its way through and I meet and greet the splendid and the few. Picking my way, the raindrops step aside; I am gratified, though I never mind the rain. When the mud has settled and my bed calls me home; I look back to the start of the day and pray to begin the next one the very same way.


Look for your eyes in a crowd


*
WATER PROOF

What could water prove anyway?
I get in the water and I get wet.
I’m sure there is a theorem
But a proof is highly doubtful.

Naiads dance with tridents in their hands
Illustrating the beauty and danger of the waves
But this certifies nothing.

Juiceless arid dirt can make no claims either
I see ducks take flight
Pushing the air with their wings
And rivulets trailing from webs.

This is the thing to scoot beneath at the surface,
Take sustenance and pleasure
but never to become so saturated that the air is lost.
Waterproof, is the way to go.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 6


Flower Power

The man with the chrysanthemum on his head walks up and down the aisle. Do I look like that, I wonder to myself? Have I taken personal style to the point of caricature? What is the boundary by which the embarrassment is kept at bay? Is there a point at which I can overcome who I present myself as, and represent the best of who I can be? Who I might be if only I can manage not to get carried away by impressionism? I am given this dwelling and it suits me quite well, when I treat it as a temple and not simply as a shrine.


Do without some things not everything
*

ALMOST TWINS

You and I are more alike than different
Yet we cannot get along
Though I ponder why this surprises me so.

A cloud and a watermelon are 98 % the same
And no one would mistake them in a crowd
Or expect them to be companionable
Except in the way of two things existing in the universe.

My expectation of liking you for our similarities
Is set up by my fear that I don’t like myself
But the joke is on me.

My dislike of you is not a reflection
Of anything but time and space
My friends are the people who like me
Not necessarily the ones who are like me.

The president didn’t like broccoli
Without slurring its good name
And I can dislike you
Without inferring you are a vegetable


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 7


Anti-Forfeit Activity

I don’t want to write bad, forced, poor, weak, care-worn poems, but I won’t write any good ones if I don’t lift this pen. The embarrassment I might feel for lackluster lines is far less than the shame of empty notebooks. I don’t always like what flows when I open the gates, but I am sure glad the current is live and so am I.


Tie a knot
*

COOCOO’S NEST

I ran away to join the zoo
Hoping a life contained would calm me.
The segregation hit me first
Isolated exclusively with those of my stripe
Drove my thirst for diverse scents and opinion.

Next the monotony of the landscape bore into my brain
The well-meaning efforts of the keepers
Bears the mark of folks who go home at night.

The blandness of the food and music
Lent nothing to the experience
And antiseptic could drive anyone wild.

The final blow, the one which struck constantly and coldly
Was the steady stream of observers
Just waiting to be entertained.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 8


Night Spaces

When it gets dark it gets dark fast. They say, night falls, though sometimes it feels like it falls down. What is little realized is there is a lifting when the light has gone away, the sky raises its roof and there is more air to breathe. Long lost is the pink wisp that heralded this night and far ahead is the next wisp of pink singing up the moon.


Believe in someone

*

WHAT’S MINE IS MINE

I don’t always know how to get the dog off the baby.
The attacks are often sudden and always swift.
My shock at the reality delays my response.
Falters my steps and fogs my mind.

What should I do to disengage this assault?
What can I do that won’t make things worse?
How can I resolve this now?

The pain is almost unimaginable
But yet all too familiar.
It all comes down to ownership
I must admit this baby is me.

I have to face this dog is my pet.
I have fed and groomed him
And now I have to put this dog to sleep.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 9


It All Points to Joy

Can Love reweave the fabric which hate destroys? Can Kindness resew the field torn through with disregard? Can Beauty paint the world anew after so much ugliness has rained down upon us? My heart believes these three can not fail to make things right for what other point could there be than Joy?


Leach lessons from struggle
*

CHANGE IN MENU


If God is drunk we pray for spiritual sobriety
And strong sponsorship.
If God is sober we ask for things on God’s behalf
And glory in answered prayer

It is amazing that rain comes down
If I dance for it or not
I can get this wonderful recovery
Just like the rest of “we agnostics”.

I don’t have to shake your hand, wink my eye
Or say some special bit of poetry to have it.
Just the same way that weather is and changes
And deepens so too is my spiritual condition.

It is there as I tread this path
I don’t have to mark rows in my garden
For plants to grow
I wish for God a salad with two forks
We no longer need to share a bottle.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 10


The Way West

The sun reflected in the windows winks at me as I fly over. The plane climbs higher and the reflected light no longer reaches me. I slip from my eastern bonds. I am west coast bound. The carpet of snow was laid down to quiet the passage. Clouds take over the task, then part to reveal the patchwork of the middle ground. We cross the Stateline without a sound; a few more miles then touchdown.


Putter with intrigue
*


FREE THE PATE

Arrested development was bad enough
The living death sentence
It imposes is completely unacceptable.
My childhood ran downhill
Away from the mountains of confusion
Which is life in this society.

My ability to mature was damaged
And what I learned to do was mutate.
I could move laterally but never grow up.
I became the goose grown for its liver
And all the honk and squawk
In the world couldn’t change it.

I don’t have to understand
How I was let out of the prison of addiction
As long as I don’t go back.
I will never have to fear breaking out in handcuffs
Or getting locked in my crib.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 11

Flight 548

What a happy flight, wing to wing, smiles, good cheer, the air is kind, sweet, dry, easy to breathe. I am so blessed. I fly to destiny watching the traveling baby circus play around me. Giggles and drool surround me, infuse me with glee. People wander the aisle looking like well loved characters from long forgotten books and we soar. Time does not pass any more quickly this way, but it is similar to time in heaven rather than time spent in hell.



Mix jelly with joy
*

RETRO ANTICIPATION AND SUNSHINE

The night after a victory I fret about the blocks.
Will my stance be right?
Will I leave clearly?

I have been first through the tape
I have won the race
But yet I worry how I will start.

Had I anticipated a win
I might have handled the accolades better.

Apprehension has a long half-life
And feeds through the night
On my gizzards and my dreams.

Failure gives homework,
There are rewrites and type-O’s
But checkmate leaves an empty board
And hands to shake.

The long ride home is filled with
Recriminating thoughts of luck and fortune.
By the time I arrive home
The win is devalued and no longer mine.

I must pry misgivings from the winners circle
And enjoy these moments in the sun
They are just as real as any others.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 12


Master Mind

I was taught that it was my job to master fear; raised in a religion swearing they could master death. I used to spend all I had trying to create a master plan, while trying to keep secure using a Master lock. I have seen Master & Commander and do not long for that burden; in fact mastery is so much a snare and illusion. Life is quite improved when we each have an oar and we all row on.


Don’t think twice, think continually
*

ALCONOUT

Want to learn it fast but not deep?
Just go to meetings and listen with half an ear.
Call your sponsor only for her birthday and anniversary
And tell her about all the thing you are not doing anymore
But none of the things you are.

Skim the books for good quotes
That sound impressive when they pass your lips
But whose meaning has no chance of passing you heart.
Find playmates and cliques
Not home groups and surely not a service commitment.

Things fall out of orbit when they run out of juice
And you will too.
This program is not an airlock on the way to worlds unknown
It is a way to live in the world you know.

There is no question that you have the right stuff.
The question is do you want what we have?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 13


What I give you

If I give you a piece of my mind, a piece of my heart, a piece of my liver, how do I go on in its absence? Or does it ever leave me? Is this more like an excision than segmentation? Is it similar to how I carry you with me when I catch a resentment; only in a good way? I don’t know that I can be truly divided up, but I do know that parts of me don’t belong exclusively to me anymore and I believe this is all for the better.



Zoom up to anticipation
*

HEART HANDED

I pick up the pen in my heart hand
And the blood of my soul pours onto the page.
The words coalesce and clot into binding phrases
Sealed deals with my spirits punctuation.

Some days it is hard for my mind to keep up.
The current is swift and deeper than I expect.
The pulse of energy is amazing even to the mind it feeds
.
Like clouds racing the sky this power
Brings shade to some and rain to others.
The reaction of the moistened varies.
Some pull up hoods and scurry away

Others with up turned faces form a friendship with me.
At the level of electrons, we have a molecular bonding.
We are forever changed because I have picked up the pen
And they have picked up the page.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 14


What’s that in the Pool?

Parts of the Rocky Mountains look like algae bloom out in the Indian Ocean. Parts of me look like parts of you and here we go with oneness being nothing more than pattern recognition and optical illusion; though I hope there is more to it than that. My hurt might not be your hurt, but I have a sense of it. Likewise your hope may not resemble mine, but it cheers you just the same and we are all better for it. We needn’t replicate each other or attempt imitation, but recognition is a kind thing and art is what we all have to share.


Stain your napkin
*

SIZING GOD UP

God doesn’t need to be Big.
I only look for a Big God when I feel very small.
I turn to God as compensation for my feelings
As some sort of bolster to brace myself with.

I have found when I am diminished in anyway
God is tucked in a corner or pocket or drawer.
I flee to the great out-of-doors
And find earth, nature and wind.

The God of my understanding
Is proportionate to my mental state.
My partner is with me
Near enough to hear the fear pour off my skin.

God doesn’t run from me to adventures in the wild.
I want to escape regularly
But this is not my Higher Power’s defect.

I come back to God when I stop running from me.
I face my reflection and recognize
I am not towered over by a Giant God.
I am yoked with a power to share the load.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 15


Whose Oxygen Mask goes on First?

Desperation is the fuel which forges my resentments. When I fear for my survival, physical, emotional or financial this will turn my response to your behavior into tinder, sometimes gasoline and set our interaction ablaze; melt all which is steel strong between us and create a molten mess from which it will be a struggle to recover. This is why, me taking good care of me, attending to my life, and quelling my fears is the very best way for me to protect you from my attitude and save me from a negative balance sheet during my 10th step.


Ask the questions
*


DON’T BITE

Desperation jumps up--runs around--then drops.
If I don’t feed it-- desperation burns out fast.
I used to buy the advertising--the Horror--the Humanity.
The acorn falling on my head convinced me easily.

I grew this nut into terrifying despair.
Never realizing if I had left it alone
How quickly it would pass.
When tragedy comes there is no time for a performance.

The whirling splendor itself proves the farce.
If I learn to recognize these triggers
I might keep from shooting myself in the foot.
If I let desperation wear itself out
I can stay with the pack.

Despondence splinters me
And separates me from anything rational.
But quiet resolve lets me watch the wind twist
While I keep my feet on the ground.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 16


Peter and I

This flight is not filled with the giggling cherubs of my westerly flight, but among the solemn children on this flight is Peter, the oldest of four, who is reading Tolkien and marking his place with a two page wish list. Christmas is coming and Peter seems confident. I wonder if we are what we read and ponder if I am what I write. Poetry, stories, novels, declarations, it all feels like arms and legs, things I cannot move right without. I live better when they are out and free. I am free too, when they live on their own and I am not their soul residence. I have to rededicate myself to the work entrusted to me for so many lives depend upon it.


Treat a book to a day out
*

RELAPSE IS NOT REQUIRED

Relapse is not required - said my sponsor
Though at some meetings they make it seem appealing
All that ‘prodigal drunk’ treatment.

Well so far I’m living in the blessing
Of being convinced the first time- I told her
Plus what could possibly be out there
That’s better than what’s in here?

That is the point
There is so much out there that is faster and bigger
More dramatic and extreme
But I sure have never see anything better.

She patted my head and I grinned
Since I am winning the first time
Why would I want to lose?
I add just to overstate her point.

This is the perfect place for those who want it
And all the rest get drunk
But drinking is not required
Any more than Santa has to come on Christmas.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 17


Pretty Girls

Pretty girls seem to live by separate rules, but I don’t know why. The world is filled with people and rules, crazy circumstances and the uniformity of exception. The where and what for, of arbitrary allowance to be regulated based on symmetry or fashion strikes me as odd, beyond survival and this may explain so very much. Gravity pulls down equally; discriminates for nothing. Orbital rotation continues in spite of the fairness of an eye. The universe supports us without end but prejudice is our failing and I blame it on the pretty girls



Sift the silt for treasure
*


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.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 18


Calm, Peaceful, On

Once I center my mind I can type in the dark. All it takes is me present and willing to flow. Limber up the learning curve, press my fingers to the keys, let the story tell its tale. Cease the interjections lest it all go stale. There is nothing much to know, it’s all inside, I just let it go. Emptying this crowded vault, I open up to prevent assault. What to do when it hits the page; marketing is all the rage, but for this task I need a light. To sell myself I must be bright.


Paste pictures on your mental partitions
*


FAILED SOUP AND DISTRUST OF BURGUNDY

What keeps me coming back to meetings and step work
Is an abiding mistrust of booze.
Despite promises and advertisement, hope and folklore
I couldn’t rely on drinking to take me where I wanted to go.
And surely couldn’t depend on it to keep me there.

The struggle is great; the attempt to cling to salvation
Though decanter is mighty but in the end
This joining of my chemistry to another failed miserably.

No matter how I held my mouth
Held my head, held my liquor
Satisfaction escaped without me and I was left here
In the soup of my disillusion and disappointment.

I may not always succeed in my recovery
But I can draw dividends on every deposit
And use this to build a path to my desires.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 19


Crazy Time

Picking the right time to be crazy seems to be the key to getting away with it. Wanting to get away with it slants the field a tad. What crazy is changes from place to place, which puts all the more emphasis on the timing. The surrounding company and barometric pressure play parts and put on airs. Lighting, lighting must also be involved, I assure you I don’t know how and can’t calculate the Ohms, but I flip the switches in case it helps. I have mapped for you a fair amount more than I know. I wish you well on your attempt, for crazy is a kindred club, I would hate for you to feel inept.



Admire your friends
*

THE FIRST FATHER

The rest of what I have to say
I will slip under your gravestone.
If I have time after I buy the 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 punishment.
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.

Which is why although I pray every day
For your wellbeing for the sake of mine
If I never see you again
It might just be long enough.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 20


Touch Your Toes

Funny how we deal with feet. I have seen a woman cradle hers and treat it like the dearest babe. I know some folks who shun their feet; can barely stand to think of them, let alone to touch them. There are the Mani-Pedi people who leave it in the hands of others. I met a guy who soaks them soft and tucks little bits of cotton under the corners of his nails. I know too, the woman with the snarling crusty dogs that serve to others as a warning. My grandma warns me not complain about my shoes lest I meet the man who has no feet, but I doubt I would fit in his.




Borrow brilliance
*

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 children to starve the adolescents is a sad fate
Or abandoning adults after bringing them all this way
Is indescribably cruel.

I cannot work on healing
All the while waiting for some ice flow
To shove myself off on.

There is never a time I am not the responsible party
For the people who inhabit my interior life
I live their reflections 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 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

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 21


Not My Best Friend

No matter how tightly I hug a lump of coal I will not prevail in turning it into a diamond. Some days I accept this better than others. My desire may affect the coal, but this affect is not diamond producing; though it is stress producing. I know it stresses me and chills me to the bone. I had thought of coal as warming, but the disparate love of coal proves to be anything but. I have pinned my hopes on what this lump had the potential to become rather than acceptance of what it is and now I see I must light my own fire and know the coal is not mine.


Close the window on harsh winds

*
AND THIS IS FOR WHAT?

I smiled down on God and said----
“This is pretty and what is it for?”
“Oh, that’s your life.
It is a surprisingly useful thing to have.”

My Higher Power, like my sponsor
Thinks she’s funny but she is not.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Who do you think I am, your Mother,
Your Grandpa Joe, your guidance counselor?

I put all the possibilities in you,
Then I let the wind blow.
What would be the fun of coming here
If I gave it to you all mapped out?

Did it occur to you the reason people say--
You are right where you are suppose to be
Is because you did the things
That brought you here, not me.

And if you don’t like it here
You are the one who needs the motivation
To change it.”

“Take my life------Please!”
“You are such a comedian!”
“No that’s your department.

Could you stop tending your garden
For five minutes and give me your attention?”
“I don’t need to give you that kind of attention
You bloom on your own.”

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 22

Age and Death

When death was young
It did its job cleanly no mincing about
Now the uncertainty and old age tremble
Leave the world filled with half dead zombies
Living is less for the faltering of death
I would rather be struck down swiftly with a scythe
Than bludgeoned endlessly with a butter knife

Sing with the wind

*
Before Pearls

You must stop crying
You must

The endless tears will poison you
Your teeth and soul, the life of you

Just because you don’t know how you can go on
Doesn’t mean the world will stop to let you off

The raw red rough of it will drag you to its lair
Doing what it will with you, there is no hope to spare

Unloved child you must go on
Lied to and misguided doesn’t change the time

There is nowhere to lie down and sleep
No safe and sheltered home

So dry your face, pick up your pack
Carry all your freight

Close your eyes to beauty
Close your ears to lies

You are the only oyster
The sand your only prize

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 23


Lame

I easily identify the big mistakes of my life, but fail to recognize or report the little mistakes that I make, mistakes, which cost me so much. Repetitive irresponsibility has the effect of water torture; drip, drip, drip and my peace of mind is worn away. What can I say of what I refuse to see? It was there all along like the view covered by the shade. Who is to blame for not raising the curtain? It may be me. may not, but I am the one who suffers, I am the one who misses out. Missing the opportunity to grow out of these small deficiencies leaves me with a lifelong handicap and I am not just speaking of my blindness, but also how they make me lame.


Protest ignorance

*

Beginning and End

She stepped through my window and the clock stopped.

The shock of her arrival heart pounding fun and fury.

Forever I felt as if she weren’t there.

Fear lurked in my eyes.

Smile enchanting.

Exit at hand.

Good-
Bye.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 24


Scalene

Strangeness is attracting, I don’t try to deny it. I have looked longingly at oddness and every skewed thing. Though I try to divert my gaze the acute angles draw me back to peer again and again. Strange attractors have an unexplainable beauty to me. The wane charisma digs its hooks into my soul and I carry it off like a burr stuck to my hide. What does this say of me, I am not sure? What does it say of the sidelong loves of mine? Volumes, I think it speaks volumes, all of it unknown to me.


Collect friendly faces


*
WHAT’S LEFT AFTER HOPE RUNS AWAY


shoes and socks
old post cards
tennis balls with no more bounce
memories that have lost their fun
dreams left in the box
earrings with the clasp askew
things I’ve said
dead thoughts, too
stacks of books
letters written
tender feelings
wonder---smitten
the pain is left
and runs around wildly
my face is stained
and left untidy
I can never fill the space
Which hope leaves behind it
The stage is dark
And everything quiet


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 25


Home Fires Burning

I have trouble living with myself that is why I live with you. It takes my mind off the things I don’t wish to face. What I can busy myself with in your service lightens the load of expectation heaped in my DNA by my Higher Power and Fate. Worry is time consuming and I wile away hours fretting over you and all your unresolved trifles while turning my back entirely on my life. I couldn’t be happier to have you, though from the corner of my eye I glimpse G-d packing your bags.


Wash like you matter to yourself
*

FOR THIS TIME


Your desire is an ephemeral gift I treasure

A snowflake on my fingertip, a raindrop on my tongue

Your passion is a savory treat in season for this moment

Pomegranate seeds and rich truffles tempt and delight me

Your kind touch brands me flush, anticipation spreads like flame

Wind whips the breath of my wish to the four corners

Your acuity plucked me from the page and slipped me in your pocket

I nestle quiet with the lint and the cookie remnants


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 26


A Thousand Windowed House

I am like a house with a thousand windows. When I am lit up inside you can see all the way through; when I go dark the reflection of the world around me is all that is visible when you look my way. My sprawling mind is what creates this effigy of me. A tribute when I am well tended and a fire trap when I neglect my duties. If I learn to celebrate in all the rooms this house is my home, so I must practice; dance and sing in the hallways so I can pirouette into the rooms with full voice. For what is the point of being a house with a thousand windows, if I don’t live there?


Host sympathy
*

Love Lets


Love melts the icicles in my heart
Allows the oxygen to my brain
Lets me work unfettered

Love pours the warm bath
Heats my bones
Lets my breath come easy

Love wakes me to sunrise
Beds me at dusk
Lets my body unfurl

Love builds me a pantry
Fills it with goods
Lets me eat my fill

Love rights my boat
Bails my bilge
Lets me sail on home

Love dresses me in safety
Undresses me in secret
Lets me see myself



Love opens doors
Closes windows
Lets me go my way

Love puts a penny in my hand
A dollar in my pocket
Lets me save the fare

Love burns your image in my brain
Holds you tight within my heart
Lets me dream of you

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 27


Harriet Powers

Like a creature with a long tale told in a hushed voice. The whispers tell the story with inflection and innuendo. I slink away from the mirror and the disembodied voices it engenders. Thirty versions of my past spin away from me in the eddies of time gone and misremembered. I gather my fragments and tatters; I thread my needle and sit to quilt me into the present. The odd assortment left from all which has worn out or been pulled apart fit in a pinwheel pattern and turn toward a better day. The night is warmer for now I have it covered, settled and safe, perhaps now I might even sleep.


Use a crutch if you have to but move
*


Best so Far

Being the best so far doesn’t mean so awful much
Makes you the current standard bearer is all
Not even keeper of the watch.

I can’t give you a torch to hold
Certainly not a title either of Daddy or of Din
You will find your way through this morass
Keep your courage if not your cast
But this is a hard thing my dear, dear friend
Because the old tricks they don’t work no more
And the new tools ain’t broke in.

And lest I should forget
Just because you say you have a sense of humor about yourself
Doesn’t mean you have it
And when you try to take me to hand
It doesn’t mean you ken it
And all the days that dreams drift by
It doesn’t mean they’re yours and mine

For time must play its evil trick
And leave good things to pass by us
But this doesn’t mean that hope is lost
Or even that I’ve found it
Only that peace is a thing which seeps
And pressing will confound it

So maybe when you are pushing seventy
And are sober nearly as I am now
I will read this to you
And we will laugh
For by then being the best so far
Will matter a little more and hurt a little less.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 28


Entrée Entrée

I am not one to order an appetizer, I prefer the main meal. Even if I carry the majority of the entrée home I like to have it all there before me. Knowing there is enough, might I want it, means peace of mind and I can relax and eat what I wish. That’s how much I fear. Fear opening my mouth to ask for more. Fear not anticipating my actual appetite. Fear of having nothing to show for my evening out. What could it all be like had I felt free of rules and public policy that must be carried out in private? I might never know, but what I do know is that I need to overcome this. Not because of starving children near or far, not to eliminate the science experiments of mold growth and wilted lettuce in my frig, but in order that I have a chance to have my desert and eat it too and leave the rest unordered.


Lubricate the places where you get stuck

*

Burying the Impossible Dream


I didn’t waken it and twist it in a shroud
I propped it in a corner and attempted to play house.

I didn’t face the truth and love the loss that goes along
I clung tighter than tight and buried my face in the back of its shirt.

I didn’t stand and look in the mirror
I stared into space and played the film strips of futurity.

I didn’t breathe in and out keeping my heart aloft
I held it all with empty lungs and pallid pulseless bosom

I didn’t do the things I could not do
I did the things I had to do

I didn’t think I could ever let it go
I know now that I must


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

December 29


Hey Little Sister

Who pulls the trigger, you or I, in this Shotgun relationship? Is it more to the point if you slit my throat or if I slit my own? I only ask for the sake of expedience, rudeness was never my intent. I know we both wish this dilemma resolved with due speed and precision where possible. I am not as concerned with my survival as much as neatness all around. I hate to leave you with a mess and I would tuck my tail and go, but I have tried that before and still we end up here, so let’s end this shall we and hope that there are better worlds than this to find after we have shattered the sugar egg we used to live in.


Tend your human ivory
*

I AM


I am unloved though most everyone loves me

I am unwanted though there are those who stand in line

I am unknown though people who’ve met me never forget

I am unconscious though I seem awake

Because today it is about how I feel not what is real



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

[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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 7

HELP FROM STRANGE SOURCES


I can not get my mind wrapped around the places I find help. I struggle with believing I have been helped; I struggle with disbelief at my own resistance. I am helped daily by many tiny things seen and unseen. I realize now, I was injured by the same tiny things when I was misaligned with my Higher Power.
The sun rising, the tiny star I circle in this great nothingness, it makes my whole day. The air hanging around just in case I need it, which I often do. The people who live with me (a mean feat), work with me, those who exist here with me, keep my ship on course. How very sweet of them to do mostly right every day of their lives. What a help that is. The whole ecosystem and all the weather: what would I do without it? But this is on a good day.
On a bad day, the sun is in my eyes, scorching my skin. The air is too still or well, the wind is always a problem. And People, people are an endless plight. People do things to hurt, annoy and irritate me. Full intent, targeted to me, my life, my wants destroyed. Bugs seek me and I am followed by the darkest cloud, every day, all day lurking.
I am so thankful for a sponsor and a tenth step.


Name your tears; honor them for who they are

*
Dion


Everything in the world happened before I was born
and the cinders sift through my fingers.
Accomplishing cohesion of the ashes
is a goal I have not yet achieved.

Cremains precious but meager
are a difficult building material,
shifting due to emotions and wind,

I find they stick too well to my lungs
and not well enough to anything else.
Tears help, but I will not cry forever.

I must draw from a fresh water source
and wet the powdery scratch I have inherited
and form the world anew.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 8


OLD GOLDFISH

I got them when my sobriety was new. They were tiny little guys, ten-cent feeders. I wanted my stepson to sleep soundly in our strange jumble of a home, fresh from purchase. The tank sat on a dresser under his elevated bed, space to fit my hand to feed them, no space for baby boy to climb in. I loved my goldfish. There is never a no with gold fish; feed them as often as you want; let the water get cold. Put them in a big space, a small space, plants, no plants. No was so hard. I hate and fear no. I am hard, fish are easy.
Tears and mesmerizing aquarium. Meetings and steps. I could not keep myself alive. I don’t know how I kept the fish fed. The program kept me going, kept hope flowing, and the fish swam. In this century, when we finally are outliving wild goldfish, we are sober together by the grace of our Higher Power. It’s been a wonderful time. I am grateful to be here with the goldfish. I am grateful the goldfish are here for me, expecting so little. Maybe I could return the favor.
“I’m grateful you appreciate the fish,” says my sponsor.


Find a bell to ring
*

Lathe

Turning into a spin,
the edge cuts into my misconceptions,
the point sharp and accurate to a fault
digs into the excess I carry around,
keeping me from my useful purpose.

A good eye and steady hand
are needed lest breakthrough ruin me.
Not that all is ever lost
for a spoon with a hole
in the bowl will stir a soup smooth.

Relinquishing my burdens and trusting the carver’s tools and methods
takes great commitment.
I am carved commitment or no,
but things turn out better when I don’t flinch.




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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 9


IN A BACKWATER


There is a place so removed, uninspired, ignorance flourishes. I hate to go there. I avoid it when I can. Today I could not avoid it. Today I saw the gable end of a small barn, half hidden in the scrub trees. On the face of the gable end are two plywood cutouts, large, taking up the major portion of the space. The first cutout is a budgie, a bright blue parakeet, 7 or 8 feet tall. Tilted to its side, it looks dyslexic, but intriguing. Above it is a cutout of a black guitar, similar length, hanging long ways across the top, almost from eave to eave. I don’t know what it means, why they are there, who could have put them there.
A story’s tongue is sticking out at me; I can hardly bear it. I think of God, and laugh. If my God has nothing better to do than tease me, I need a better God. I think of my Higher Power and wonder if the power is curious, too. Am I overlapping a layer of consciousness I have no part in? Is this a subliminal preview of my future? Or am I far too nosy for my own good? My sponsor says the latter. I just don’t know. It could be something all together different. I have only time. Time will tell in the end; it always does. I hate to wait.




Compare and contrast eggplant and green beans.
*





Crestfallen


“Whoa is me,
I have crested the rise only
to slide down the other side.

Hard work and determination culminated in victory
but alas it was short lived.
Success is barely meaningful if it isn’t permanent.

Poor, poor dear,
I will have to strive once more
at the face of a new challenge or even worse
might have to make another run at this one.
How shall I ever bear it?” I lament, my sponsor smiles.

“Are you learning to be amused at yourself
or hoping to bring back melodrama to the everyman?”
She queries.

“A little of both I think,
whining is a consolation to me,
” I reply.

“It’s nice that you’re not doing it at me,
but even nicer that you have let your achievements
teach you to laugh at your mishaps,”
said my sponsor with a kiss to my forehead.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 10

BREAKING MY OWN GLASS

The police of a small town caught a serial glass breaker today. The man who owned a plate glass repair shop was breaking store front windows. I break my own. I go through my life; I slash my own tires and break my own glass. I fear continuity, stability, success. I love damage control, making arts and crafts from my slivers and shards.
“Think what you could do with undamaged goods,” says my sponsor.
I don’t know how to do anything with undamaged goods, except damage them or give them to others.
“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she counters.
“Stick around,” I tease.
I can make a quilt from discarded clothes, mosaics from shattered dishes, collage from junk mail. I can hold your hand and cheer you on. See the potential in every person in a crowded hall. Rescue every stray on the block.
“What have you done for you lately?” my sponsor taunts.
She is making my point. What can I do for me? Search and destroy? Live outside myself? I have to be sober to be me. I can’t go around making messes so I have something familiar to wallow in. What if I can’t do anything fresh?
“Learn to market the retreads,” she says.


Watch an old thing in a new way.
*


Hoarfrost


On balmy evenings dew forms in my life
and moistens my extremities.
This friendly act requires the maintenance of temperature.

If I become suddenly cool the landscape changes
and the once welcoming vapor
is now a show of crystalline rigidity.

Cold to the morning light I am brittle
and snap at even a tentative touch.
For want of passion I have replaced it
with definition and structure I can not absorb.

I am outlined clearly but no longer myself.
I am frozen, formally changed within and without.
Warmth is necessary, but how to start my own fire?
Learn I must and quickly, lest frostbite set in.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 11

LONELINESS EATS MY LUNCH

There are days loneliness eats my lunch and I can’t fight back. How can I stand it? How can it still be this bad? I pull out the old chestnuts: If I’m not happy with what I have, how could I be happier with more? And, Even tickets on the fifty yard line don’t interest me; I came to play! I roll them around. I think of the other slogans, the tidbits, the smiles and hugs. Still, there are days my lunch is gulped down and I sit with my plate empty. Pickle juice, coleslaw drool is small comfort. Actually, it’s a jeer. I stare at my empty plate. I turn it and twist it. I stick out my tongue at it.
“You're good company,” says my sponsor.
Then why am I alone? If I’m so good, if my company is worthwhile, why do I sit here hungry and desperate?
“Are you sure you are?”
It sure feels that way.
“Well it might be true.”
And it might not. I get it. I am unhooked from myself; I’m ignoring the multitude at my elbow, looking for someone in my lap. I’m holding out for old terms from a new contract. I am loved by people who aren’t trying to consume me and I am letting my expectations dine for free.



Imagine who the wind visited before you and who it is on its way to visit now.
*



Pepo


My father used to destroy a perfectly good watermelon
by cutting a triangle in the top
and pouring a bottle of vodka into it.

I used to destroy my perfectly good melon the same way.
Emulating bad ideas in new ways
was a onetime pastime of mine.

Giving it up was harder than I had expected.
Flawed thinking blends so freely with my mental landscape
I have trouble distinguishing it.

Condemning the action and not the man
is not usually my preferred method.
I would rather condemn the man.

But this leaves me with the actions in place
and him long gone and though I prefer him gone
I will recreate him within myself
if I don’t flush his actions as well.

I have a good pumpkin on my shoulders
but it is my job to keep it intact.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 12

LIFE IS TOO GOOD

I know it sounds crazy. Is crazy. But I hate having the fear, the gnawing gut of “what if I can’t maintain this”? The sober life I live, what if I get struck unable to connect to my Higher Power? I had a spiritual awakening; what if I get spiritual narcolepsy? My spiritual cord was cut when I was young, not by my choosing. What if it’s cut again?
“What if this line of thinking cuts it?” asks my sponsor
I hate when she’s right. What if this is the test? Be like them or not. Follow the path of the twelve steps when there is no weight of need pushing me. I have to keep my eye on the ball for myself when everything is going in my direction. I’m still not God. This is the lesson the abusers never learned. The one I have to.
“This has been a prelude to a decision,” says she.
What decision?
“What went wrong was not bad people making bad choices in bad circumstances. It was disconnected people making decisions without help.”
I have to stay in your pocket. Never be a free bird. I have to remember what true freedom is. It’s not being cut loose. I had that and it never felt free.
“Keep your eye on the ball; hold onto my hand.”


Read a children’s book to yourself.
*
Live Bait



Is being a taunt to others really a life?
Dangling as the cover for a hook,
luring intended and unintended to their deaths,
is that living?

Or if I draw you with my attack
rather than my appeal
is that a worthwhile existence?

If I carry myself filled with poison
praying for a strike is that anything
other than a march to an unhappy grave
for two, or more?

Hidden under an avalanche of harassment
strips me of my vital quality
and my soul loses its true nature.

I am allowed to transcend
the setup of competition and social strife.
It’s alright to be tempting with no agenda.

I could be an appetizer
if only I removed the barbs
or better yet I could be dessert.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 13

CATCH



How can my sensibility catch my intellect? Or find a map with enough information to get my heart to the current location of my mind? What are the common markers recognized by soul and brain? I know the pulse of my wrist is counter-pointing the firing of my synapses. My life signs run their course and I struggle to find the intersections. I long for more than signposts and curbing. I would like parallels, paradigms and conclusions. There must be a place of common home and hearth. I am looking for the depot of my life. I hope I hit it before I hit the coast.


Warm your heart with your thoughts.

*
Offset


I often feel out of round
and unmatched to my counterparts.
Awkwardly I sit unable to strike a plausible pose.

I want my asymmetry to seem chic.
I feel a victim of universal ugliness
and gracelessly plod through my days.

Luckily offset thinking,
the partner of my offset soul, saves me.
I see that I am uniquely useful,

Like a screwdriver set at right angles
for use where a straight one could not reach.
I am counterbalance and compensation.

I may be lateral but I am also collateral.
I am an embellisher, beneficial in unexpected ways
and shouldn’t seek to be inline with the multitude.

I am the new growth,
the spur to the future.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 14


GRAVITY WORKS ALL THE TIME

Limits and boundaries are a drag. I hate feeling tied to the ground. I know I could fly if not for unseen forces. I sense myself lightening, smoothing, I drop my burdens; I pick up speed. Fourth dimension! Hell! I’m proverbial vapor trails. At this time I should explain. When I get moving this fast, I inevitably wind myself into a position where my head is up my in my nether regions, a place it does not belong.
I have slowly grown to love my limits; no restraint holds me back. In reality, I am supported, rooted as it were. I am not a hydroponic. I can live in the real world. I am me. Encouraged by the wind and the rain, I am not the hot house flower. I am truly free. I can walk where I was born to walk. I forget life has not been found outside my little world, and when it is, I’m still better off being me.


Introduce yourself to a new vegetable.

*
Specks


Spectacles are for specks;
tiny things that must be watched.
Commotion is nothing but a congregation
of minutia with an audience.

How many small things
do I strain my eyes to see;
then seek help to pursue further?

Some of these are put on display fishing for voyeurs.
Others are secreted away
only to be ferreted out through magnification.

Whether curiosity or contempt drives me
to these pinpoints I must search my motives
before I scan the plain.

For truly if I am not careful
I, myself will end up either speck or spectacle.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 15

NO MAPS


Maps have existed longer than I have. By the time of my birth, aerial photography had made pinpoint accuracy the norm. I can be tracked by satellite on my daily commute. I can get a Trip Tik and travel to the far reaches of this continent.
"So what’s your problem?” asks my sponsor.
There is no map for where we’ve been going. There are the twelve steps but after that, it is all uncharted territory, except, of course for my family’s warnings about dragons.
“Those critters stay to home mostly. You have bigger things to worry about.”
So, where’s the map? I need to know where to go.
“No map. We go through this together. The pitfalls are similar: sex and money. There are a few others. What each of us finds on this journey is unchartable, plus if you spend your time looking down, you will miss the view. We prop each other up as we step off into the unknown, and reel each other back if we start falling off the beam.”
How do I know if I’m doing it right?
“Are you still sober?”
Yes, but I’m unsure. Lots of people are sober right up until the time they’re drunk.
“So true. It’s all about motive, and it’s difficult to chart your heart. Do you have willingness?”
Yes, you know I do.
“I have found that is the vehicle to everywhere, Honey. Learn to enjoy the ride.”




Write silly verse.
*


Comparison Shopping



Cost analysis of the yeas and nays
requires a savvy consumer.
Every word has a variable price
dependent on whom it is spoken to
and when it is said.

Some words charge compound interest
and others pay dividends.
Timing and delivery is of the utmost importance.
Knowledge of the markets requires constant assessment.

The risk to benefit ratio varies widely
and the short term verses the long term price
can flip the market from profit to loss.

Hold my tongue, speak my mind,
these must be weighed;
the clock consulted and inventories taken.

What I say and when
can be less a matter of bull or bear
than whether or not I can afford to be a sheep.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 16


FEEDING SQUIRRELS ON A ONE LANE BRIDGE

Cattle corn spread on the single Lane Bridge---the trap. Food or safety? There are plenty of other choices; my disease sees none of them. Gluttony and danger the perfect combination. How can I resist? Why would I resist? I have to have more. I cannot depend on my nature, the ability God gave me to survive in my environs. Help must come from outside, and must be wild and dramatic. Inward help is boring, subtle, tiresome. Where’s my image? My excitement?
How am I going to prove my God worthy without too much, without perilous risk and rescue? I can’t. I can’t prove my God, and my God doesn’t need to prove anything to me. I can find my way, off the beaten path, away from the prying eyes of rubberneckers. No cheers from the crowd are necessary. I have the equipment. It came standard. If I look at the controls and follow the twelve step tutorial, I should be able to manage just fine. No Mack truck in my face, as I stuff myself with ill-gotten grain.


Look deeply into a glass of water searching for mermaids.
*


Bon


Comfort or motivation
these are the two major reasons for building a fire.
Sometimes I set it before me
other times under me.

The warmth can be soothing
and the light dazzling,
but licking flames move me
off the spot like nothing else.

Fuel and surrounds contribute to the effect.
Mental state and personal company
provide dampening or air.

How high the flames rise or how long they burn
varies widely inspiring my passions,
my thoughts, my fears

The conflagration is an apt tool
as long as I don’t go up in smoke.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 17


IN THE COMFORT OF MY ROOM

I sit and panic concerning the future. I have come through hell, built a safe and satisfying life, but it will all end soon. I can feel it. The tide rises in my soul, the blood red tide of self-doubt and degradation. I fail to see my strength, or intelligence. Hell, I can’t even remember the sheer willingness, which has carried me this far. All I see are shreds, tattered little bits of my hopes and dreams, scattered by the breeze of fate.
What is the point of me being in this sweet space if I’m going to intellectually turn it to a dungeon? Why set out fluffy pillows only to frighten myself daily with thoughts of their removal? How can I pray for safety and practice personal terrorism? With an open mind? No! My mind is closed to the double side of life. I know the destruction but forget the glory. I have washed ashore in the land of love and support. I need not drag my mind and spirit to the nether world of hopelessness. I’ve been to the dark places. My task is to warm in the sunlit today.


Make an anagram of your name, which empowers you.
*

Hades


There is strangeness to the dark.
A velvety comfort
when my paranoia is not alive
with ice crystals and contempt.

Cocoons of light create hives of life
in an otherwise isolating phenomena.
Pressing to my skin I can wear the night out
as a jewel, a talisman for the hope I dare not share.

Pixies and faeries inhabit dawn’s wee hours
but the black blank stretch of space
is home to things quite different.

Unspeakable in their face I allow them to pass.
Should I be carried off my return is eminent
for half the seeds remain.

Not wholly ransomed I live only part time in the sun.
When the shadows fall there is the oddness of home
I can neither embrace nor deny.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 18


THERE IS A TREE

There is a tree in the woods. I’ve seen it. It is cut off from any visible source of strength or sustenance. Carried aloft by the surrounding trees, the splintered trunk dangles in the air. It makes no connection to the forest floor. I know the feeling. I have been cut off too. Violently separated from my God, as it were. I probe the fractured stump at the bottom of my soul. I explore the crevices seeking tendrils of hope. My anxiety bonds to my frustration, but faith eludes me. I look down to the broken place, the view unrealized by me. I have a vista of unimagined beauty provided to me by the growth of others. I am eye to eye with my peers, held in their loving embrace. I bloom and flower with them. I endure the winters the same as they, and come spring am the stronger for it. I don’t know why I was damaged. I don’t know why I was saved. I am grateful it is done.
My sponsor says it’s for our sobriety and the pleasure of your company.



Think of three honorable people.
*


Between Two Chains


The curving movement half seen sweeps forward
and catches me squarely on the chin.
Realization glimmers that next time
it will strike me in the mouth
and I take a step back.

I estimate the returning arc, raise my arms,
push the board back from whence it came.
As it hurtles toward me once more, I reposition.

Force returns force;
fury comes vigorously my way
and I thrust with strength and enthusiasm.

And this is fine for what it is.
I have learned how not to get hit.
I can push when I get shoved.
How much better will it be
when I can get on and swing?

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 19


ROCK BOTTOM PRICES


Marble topped dressers, dry sinks and wardrobes, standing in the auctioneer’s warehouse, show loving use and obvious value. The hungry consumers peruse the merchandise looking for the perfect piece to fit their need. Old men eating ice cream sandwiches pick their way through the rows of tidbits laid out on the lawn, bargains to fill in odd spaces and little desires. So like our meeting places, where people try to refurnish their lives. The cost to arrive may have been high, but once in the market is more than fair. We reclaim relics and we use them as road signs and warnings. There is always someone around to carry large truths home and no one has to go away empty handed. We bid on our own survival by buying someone else a break. Time passes easily, as the one at the podium recounts the rock bottom prices.


Curl up inside the nautilus of your mind and take a nap.
*



Tea or Sympathy


Tears pouring into the teacup
growing cold on the table
create a sea of emotions uncharted.

If I cannot offer sympathy to the contents,
the soulless heel that I am,
how then do I expect to have a future?

If I will tender only meager tolerance
toward the spindled thing
valiantly trying to beat within me
why do I even show my face to the mirror?

If shoulders are cold and turned inward
then I will collapse into the inexpressive,
dismal thing that has been misshapen
through misuse.

I might as well drink the chilly tea
for that is all the comfort I will get.
I must do better by myself
in order to brew a better world.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 20

BECAUSE



Because I am my father’s child, I make my attendance at meetings frequent and regular. Having looked deeply in the genetic mirror, I see so many bitter days. I’ve run from the implications and sheltered in the steps. The humility that saved my life is the understanding I am no different from my family. And, since this is a progressive disease we all have, I will just get there faster. Knowing who I can be helps me turn my will over and keeps me grasping my Higher Power’s belt loop. All I am turns in every direction and can pull or push, lift or fall. I know my assets and I know their power and their limitations. All my hope is placed on a plan to use these resources. I follow the only lead which has never promised more than it can deliver.


Be your own loving parent.
*



What Is A Sheep To Do?



Things are bad out there.
I see the trouble as I circle within the flock.
Many of us whisper to each other as we pass.
How can I create lasting change?

Is there something helpful
that will not separate me from my precious life,
something that will not make me prey
to the vultures before I even realize that I’m dead?

How can I live and strive
while the wolves hold the hilltops?
Is the choice merely, one death or the other?

Is there an as yet unseen path?
Can I find it
while maintaining my place in this congregation?
What is a sheep to do?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 21


THE FROG

Stretched in the water, still, the frog hangs. The pond is barely a teacup, sufficient for the communion of God and frog. I watch the frog, unblinking , savoring respiration. In a pond in Maine, I bore this posture, center stage. A quarter mile of water all around, I hold my head above the surface and feel I am in the eye of God’s creation, face to face with benevolence. Peace spars with uneasy smallness. I am a tiny speck, floating in the soup; I am one organism in a sea teaming with life; I am a part of, not privileged but equal to the rest. Can I bear this reality, the struggle of living on a web? Can I live a humble life, knowing I am favored no more than the rest? Can I set aside my need for preferential treatment, a God-given Band-Aid for my multitude of hurt?
“If you can’t, you will drink," says my sponsor.
“If I have to live this way, I will cry,” I respond.
“That is your God-given right.”


Take someone else’s Higher Power out for a test drive.
*


Saurian or Dalliance


I love to be mystical
but the only dragon in my life
is when I drag on and on.

Procrastination is the winged beast in my world.
I armor plate the thing, shiny and gleaming,
my loitering delay is mightily impressive.

You might think it would take flight
from the way it postures
but departure has been adjourned
in favor of misgiving and postponement.

I wander through the forest
attempting to appear brave and feeling it occasionally
while my tale grows longer.

I need the fierce face and sharp claws
I can beat the mythology
if I will just continue to take action.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 22


THE MUSIC

I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room. No, it’s coming from my head. It’s the sound of the music of my life. The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings. The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row. The lonely voice of resolve. The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night. I don’t try to part my lips. Replication is not yet a possibility. I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap. I cannot sing my song. I must let it live in me a while longer. I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill. Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin. I have to be fully me, to be full voiced. I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony. The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord.
Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth. I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living. Passion plays and calls my response. For today, I pass. I leave the song inside.

Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness
*



Guest Flag


The polite thing to do is
fly the silly blue rectangle
with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.

That would be the polite thing, for sure
but that would peek my disease’s hold card.
If anyone knew that my illness
was sailing my ship instead of me
the effect would be ruined.

Or so says the canker that grips me
and steers me to disaster.
Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory
to whatever wrong I am about to commit
might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,

But no I leave my colors fly
and endanger the surrounding water.
For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent
as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 23

THE PROCESS


The mountains don’t wash away like sandcastles. The amount of persistence required is far greater. Acorns don’t work like sunflowers; not everything is instant gratification. Marathons aren’t run in seconds. If you don’t love the whole adventure, pick a smaller goal. There is no shame in sunflowers or sandcastles or microwave popcorn as long as you want it and hold it in esteem. Time-consuming, life-consuming journeys have a high price in boredom and are not worth the consumption if that is not where your heart leads you. You don’t have to love washing the pans to be a good baker but it helps. Peace is in the process.


Leave space on your plate for discussion.

*


Lathhouse



I want to face the sun.
I want to stand and the wind to blow.
I want the rain uninterrupted on my head.
I want to remain upright and unburnt,
to prevail amidst it all.

Tender stalks and verdant leaves
frustrate my anti-social streak.
I want to bear the worst
without cover or assistance
but here I am in the slanted shade of this dynasty.

As I grow so does the awareness
that even when I am strong enough
to leave this sheltered abode
I will be relocated to a row where I am never alone.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 24


COMPOST

Looking at the bins, the stages of decomposition remind me of my disease, the stinking garbage I came in with. I have learned to work my program the same way I learned to tend my pile: personal experience, advice, watching and smelling the mistakes of others and myself. I learned that covering thoroughly with meetings and steps works like leaves and hay to eliminate the immediate stench. Circulation is important to prevent me from becoming stale. In the end, the secret is turning it over. If I don’t turn it over, I become putrid; I rot and ferment instead of decomposing, breaking down in a way which restores me to usefulness. When I work the process, my Higher Power turns me into a medium of growth, a renewed source of life and depth. I become rich in all the things that matter and sought after by all the people involved in planting seeds of hope.
My sponsor says it’s a sign of humility that I aspire to be like dirt, encouraging sprouts from the remnants of my past.
She might be right.


Speak from your heart, listen with your mind.
*


Frankie


“Why do I expect new leaves to grow on dead sticks?”
I pleaded to my sponsor.
“Is that a ‘why do fools fall in love’, question?” she retorted.

“Oh, I suppose it is. I was doing so well having a ‘listen only’
relationship with someone then she asked why I don’t tell her
my opinion and I like a ‘fool’ I told her.
The ensuing pile of rationalizing and justifying
she gave stank up my whole day.”

“I bet your steady stream of self-reproach didn’t help either,”
my sponsor added.
“But, I know better!” I cried. “I mean this is why I stopped
my speaking role with this girl.
I know she is a reactor NOT a listener.
How could I fall apart at her first recognition that I am wordless
in the face of her diatribes?”

“You were hopeful, is that such a crime?
You think better of people than they really are.
I think that helps you stay willing to help them,” she soothed.

“Yes, but this snapped my willingness to work with her in half.
How do I put it back together?”
“Maybe you needed to learn that it’s okay to leave the dead sticks behind.”


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 25


LIFE AS AN ELM

I stand tall, my bark sloughing elongated rectangles. Great bunions of protruding wood, giant bubbles of tight grain grown in reactionary curls, these tumors born of abuse and endured in maturation are harvested in recovery. The burden of them is severed from me by the sharp teeth of truth. Sectioning these masses for purposes of inventory allows the twisted and deformed wood to become dry and constructive. I inlay the contorted sheets of history into the panels of the doors AA built for me, the doors built to exit hell, which gave me access to the world beyond.
I stand in the woods, reaching the sky, sinking deeply to the underlying springs, surrounded by the joys of reality, things unseen in my pain- consumed, blister-covered life of addiction. Life was a forest of one; the wind hit only me; the snow fell only on me; the drought affected only me. Today, lightened by the loss of my inappropriate growth, I grow together with my sponsor, my group, and the we. I can accept shade and shelter; also offer it. The bugs and parasites meet with the resistance of communal health, and my disease has no harbor, not in my bark, not in my heart. Today, my program strips me of my disabilities and makes me strong in camaraderie.

Cry just to water your face.
*


The Max Factor


I apply foundation and rouge
to make up the difference between reality and expectation.
My composition is unexamined by onlookers
Appearance is the subliminal standard bearer.

My brave face is plaster cast
as an estimation and a singularity.
Powder gives and takes power;
builds a glass ceiling then a glass floor.

What I owe my mind
is more than what I allow its representation to be.
I am made up to a spot on the wall
from which I can not move,
all because I wanted to put my best face forward.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 26


BUTTON BOX

I go to my button box to sort out my life. I lay out matching sets, the various sizes, shapes and colors. Coat buttons are commanding but unsuitable for the delicate places. The tiny pearl buttons with shanks pull my attention but work well only on silk. The metal, shell, and horn buttons come from such far off places and all end up here crossing my table, as I try to see clearly how to stick with the winners.
I know the people represented in this box, the strong, the loud, the beautiful. I know the weak, the unique, the ones of special circumstances and occasion. I come to the realization the simple ones, the buttons sewn on the inside, the ones who silently give strength and support to the large and small alike, the ones which come in every shade and size, which match their ability to the service they can render others, these are my favorites. They make secure all the things I love and trust in sobriety. Flat and unobtrusive, these buttons hold fast the fabric of my life.


Name your pens and pencils.
*



Responding to Response

Thankfully I’m not in charge
of what is so freely given in this program.
I want it to be available,
but I want gratitude to be the universal response.

At first I thought I couldn’t understand
how anyone could hold this gift in their hands
and not feel grateful,
truth is I know exactly how that’s done
and I don’t want to look at that ugly thing.

“Cunning, Baffling, Powerful”
But they left out how repulsive it is,
maybe they didn’t want to see it either,
or thought it was self-explanatory.

No matter which,
I’m glad I am not the arbiter
of the flowing fount that is recovery,
I might have been tempted to cap and meter it,
killing all the beauty and wild randomness
that makes it real and true.

I despair that others don’t recover as I recover
and yet I am relieved that I didn’t have to drink as they drank.
I have to see those around me well enough
to stay out of their traps or follow their leads,
whichever is appropriate,
but I don’t have to adjudicate their reply.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 27


DEEP IN THE SEA

Under the mirror, there is a life. Under what I reflect to the world, I am a world apart. I smile sweetly, political in my response to confrontation and conflict. Deep, deep in the sea, is a current of sadness I can’t always shake. Pain is the past, but it’s there like a moray, lurking to strike aimlessly, pointlessly, at the passers-by. The ripping teeth and cold stare, my terror. No way to escape it, I focus on the topside, the reflective part of me. I keep the surface as clean and free as can be. I stick to my business, list goals and make plans. The water runs cold and then hot beneath. I carry the steps to this under-water grave, trying to inflate the rubber skin of god, but no. There is no life in the god of my understanding, or maybe there is no life for the character the drowned balloon represents. The sea is bigger than me, the life stronger and more abundant. The sky it reflects as vast as the liquid I swim. There is a Power and it doesn’t need that comic book face. Safety is not the requirement that can be granted. Lack of safety does not end my life. It does not end God.


Tear open your thoughts like a letter you read mostly between the lines.
*

A Living Love




What I love about the program
is that it is a living thing, like me.
It is not perfect, it is growing and changing,
adapting and correcting for each experience and need.

AA is a life into life process
and saves me because life begets life,
no matter what I was told.

The answer to life is living
and I get to see that being done
by everyone from newcomer to old-timer
each at his or her personal ability.

I am allowed to dangle my feet,
wade, tread-water and swim,
all under the watchful eye of
loving support and critical pretender.

Difficulty is not removed nor is the way made smooth,
but I am no longer without a thread to hold.
I love the web I help weave myself into
and feel protected from the spider of my addiction
because together we are living proof.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 28


AMENDS


Amends is about truth and change. The relationships of my past were places of little truth and even less change. I tried to be nice not honest; I tried to keep things going even when they needed to die. Making amends has ended most of my relationships from the past. A quick strong 10th step keeps me from starting too many new ones. Good healthy relationships require time and attention, so this necessitates a short list. Sometimes I wish for more quantity, but I realize in sobriety I cannot accept less quality.



Tie your shoes with humor.
*

Simplicity Itself

My life runs at a Gilbert and Sullivan pace,
with about as much sense and comic relief.
You say 'keep it simple'
and my disease says 'why ruin a good play?’

The truth is this is not play at all
but a work that consumes my life from me
and doesn't thank me for my time.

Simplicity for me requires respect,
a gift I selectively give myself
a gift that I often use only as a shield during battle.

My past method of increased self-respect
is life in a war zone, this is no solution.
Release of grief, this is the onerous path I avoid taking.

Purging the wrong thinking and action of others
from my blood, my eyes, my skin,
allows me to lift my chin and square my soul.

To plumb and level living,
don self-respect as a birth right
and set a calendar fit for plausible life, a simple life.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 29

MY MOTHER’S FACE


The way that age pours down my mother's face when she is sad reminds me that grief runs through my blood. Generation after generation has been transfused with anxious woe. Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear. There is no easy way to round the bend on sharp pointed issues; the route is circuitous. I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back to a place where my mother’s eyes sparkle as they squint closed with her smile. The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries. We must close ranks between the ages to keep the joy from sheeting off our skin and keep the sadness in proportion. Restore us to our possible bliss; we can overtake ecstasy from there.


Build ladders for the boxes that confine you.
*

Sponsorship


Right now, as I think of sponsorship,
I think of all the things I have done wrong.
Times when I was not understanding enough
and times when I was too understanding and enabling.

Sponsors I chose for ulterior motives
and the ones I didn't challenge when they wandered away.
I search my mind for the ingredients
that were in the mix when things went well
and the dominant component was willingness, mine and theirs.

Whether I was sponsor or sponsee,
willingness overrode ability, determination and love.
We had to come to the table willing,
this was never something we were able to cook up or construct.

Nor is it something I can always hold onto,
sometimes willingness evaporates
or slips away like sand in a clenched fist.

The permanence and impermanence
of sponsorship awes and frightens me.
Like a guidewire twisted from many strands
none of which reaches from end to end
I worry about the unraveling but depend on the strength.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 30


NURSE

What if the word God is like the word nurse? What if the person is only the simple meaning? The actor doing the service, the plain act, uncontrollable from my end. What if my active part of God is the same as my active part of nurse? What I draw down; how I schedule myself to be ready when the milk arrives? How I pull and am satisfied, digest and draw again, like the sea laps at the shore, the moon tugging it all the while. What if God is about my hunger, satisfaction dependent on finding a suitable teat?
Maybe this is why, when it comes to God, much of what I do is cry. When faced with my need, I open my mouth, finding only two possible responses: suck or scream. My aching consumes me and I don’t know how to calm myself. I look for the caretaker, the person, the deed. I need succor, but never look for the breast. I am the child of God; I must learn to draw God in.


Paint a picture of life after expectation.
*

Inertia

n.

1. Physics. The tendency of a body to resist acceleration.
The tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest
or of a body in straight line motion to stay in
motion in a straight line unless acted on by an
outside force. Resistance or disinclination to
motion, action, or change.

This force is real; the laws that govern it act on me for well and ill.
When I’m on a roll it’s hard to guide me
and like the girl with the curl; when I’m stuck,
I’m very, very stuck and it’s awful.

I am bound by this reality and go or stay according to what is set
in motion or stopped, but what about ‘the outside force’?
Am I in charge of summoning ‘it’ or is ‘it’ summonable at all?

Will ‘it’ obey like the dog, or obey like the cat?
Or is ‘it’ more random than the rain?
Can ‘it’ be lured or tempted or does ‘it lure and tempt me?

And the biggest questions on my mind:
Is ‘the outside force’ also subject to inertia?
Are we in this together?

What is ‘its’ outside force?
Might it have something to do with me?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 31


TRUST

My sponsor always says, “You can trust people to be who they are.” I am a different being in relationship to different people. To some, I am the center of their constellation, the sun burning bright; I’m all they can see. To others, I am the moon, orbiting them, silent and dedicated. With another group, I am a comet streaking through the sky, seldom seen but well remembered. For many, I am a distant star, one among the multitude, blending in the night with the other signs. Then, there are the folks who see me in a more down to earth way. I am the dirt beneath their feet. The farmers see me as a plant to be tended. The cowboys view me as a horse to be broken. To fishermen, I’m a catch. I am what people want to see, so what can I trust them to be? Wrapped in their own worlds? Yes, mostly, I guess. None of my business in the end. I watch them and learn what I want to do, who I want to be, in large part, by avoiding what I see them do. I do trust people to serve as bad examples often and good ones infrequently, and for each of them to see me through their own filter, if they see me at all. From me, they can expect the same.



Find a corner, then pitch a tent.
*




The Was and the Is

The Silent Scream that existed as a placeholder
for my G-d was incomprehensible to me.
I entered AA and was informed
that understanding my Higher Power was required
not just some far distant goal.
In true alcoholic form my first move was to shun G-d.
This made room for my rage
which was in much need of the space.
After a few fine years of dissipation
I lost interest in incendiary devices
no matter how large their detonation capacity.
Having cleared the room I brought in G-d as potted plant.
I talked to it occasionally, watered and fed it, mostly ignored it.
Growing in spite of lacking ministrations
G-d was an unobtrusive force living in the corner
changing gas into air and demanding nothing.
As I quelled my apprehension and lived with the Presence
I looked, listened, probed and questioned
the subtle Force sharing the room.
“Add it up,” chanted the children in my ear,
“run the numbers, settle the accounts.”
I calculated proofs and discarded the faulty and inaccurate.
What was left, the whole, not the remainder was mine to keep,
But it was not everything. I haven’t an everything G-d,
because I am not a nothing person.
I am something and G-d is something too.

We are complimentary,
like pairs of angles who come full circle.



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

[Daktari]

It's today!!

A whole 2 years sober!!

Amazing stuffs.

This thread and it's lovely OP has played a huge part in my recovery, I will be forever grateful for your words Sherrie.
Thank-you from the bottom of my sober heart. :awww:

[LeftWriteFemme]

Congratulations my friend!!!

Thank you for doing all the work to walk this sober road!

http://www.aarecoverycoinsstore.com/images/2%20Year%20Patriotic%20Sparkle(1).jpg

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 1


WHEN I WAS YOUNG

I’m sure it will come soon, a time I can be a carefree innocent. Worn and weary, I slog through the painful over-awareness of what was considered my childhood. What can I do but hope things will get simpler as I age? My sobriety takes years from my face; lines slip from me and I feel the weight lift from my shoulders. My tender branches, twisted with the constant force of wind, bud and flower in the shelter of recovery, holding themselves in their own embrace. Colors seep to the windows of my mind, form pictures and carry me to a new world. Through limpid pools I dive as I look to the mirror. Serenity, a rebounding of life fills me, and I am the gentle girl I missed so long. Longing for my loveliness, I cry at the sight of my baby one. I have not yet taken my place on the swing but I have been down to the edge of the playground and run barefoot in the sand. I will be who I was to be; it’s late but it’s better. I know well enough to enjoy it as it comes, treasure it for every sweetness. I will come into my youth.



Listen for a bridge that calls your name.
*



Principles before Personalities............and Gratitude!


As with everything I have to be careful
of how I infer meaning.
You say ‘Principles before Personalities’ and I hear,
Their principles and Their personalities,
immediately I’m on a tear.

How different if I think of ‘my’ principles and ‘my’ personality.
When I face it this way it is reflexive;
I embrace my principles and my personality falls into step.
I am safe and sane therefore gratitude follows
just as the topic suggests.

Good orderly direction is elegant when I don’t reverse direction.
There is an obvious way to pet the cat when I accept that
we get along fine, when I don’t………well, need I say more?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 2



THE DIFFERENCE


Falling and flying are the same, save the landing. No matter what you do in the air, how well or how poorly, in the end, if you don’t land it, it’s a fall and if you do, a flight. How we begin seems of ultimate importance but is seen as a farce in the face of ruin. The most promising of starts can be sucked groundward, compass and instrumentation rendered useless, through a lack of humility. Piteous starts, starts without plan or goal are viewed as triumphs when safety has been captured from defeat. Willingness is my aileron. It contributes to my lift in ways I cannot explain, smoothes the gusts of life which forever blow in my face, and willingness brings the ground up to meet me. All I have to do is be willing and stick out my feet.



Use all your words.

*

Know Enough to Clap




If I know I’m happy I can clap my hands,
but if I’m happy and I don’t know it, what then?
Will my face display telltale signs
without whispering a word of it to my mind?

Will I whistle a happy tune
therefore revealing my inner state?
If I can’t demonstrate my reality does it cease to exist?

Does my retarded ability to reflect my emotion
condemn me to remedial society?
Is there any other society?

If I become well enough to reflexively feel
and exhibit my mood will I graduate
to the advanced class or be forever alone

No longer having a place
amid the emotional head bangers,
hair twirlers and cobweb pickers?

Is it a choice of knowing happiness in isolation
or confusion with a crowd?
Could I know? Should I know? Would I know?
Who knows?



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 3



AND THIS IS FOR WHAT?


I smiled down on God and said, “This is pretty and what is it for?”
“Oh, that’s your life. It is a surprisingly useful thing to have.” My Higher Power, like my sponsor, thinks she is funny but she is not.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Who do you think I am, your mother, your Grandpa Joe, your guidance counselor? I put all the possibilities in you then I let the wind blow. What would be the fun of coming here if I gave it to you all mapped out? Did it occur to you the reason people say ‘you are right where you are supposed to be’ is because you did the things that brought you here, not Me, and if you don’t like it here you are the one who needs the motivation to change it.”
“Take my life............Please.”
“You are such a comedian!”
“No, that’s your department, and could you stop tending your garden for five minutes and give me your attention?”
“I don’t need to give you that kind of attention. You bloom on your own.”


Age with curiosity.

*
The Inside Half


I have drunk deeply from the glass set before me.
I’m not entirely sure that I am half way through,
but I am into it a goodly bit.

I would be happy to have another 19 years;
nineteen more hours would be a gift, too.
That glass might be half empty
but I am at least half full and I am amazed!

I am regularly stunned by the prodigies
this half trek has born to term;
equally dazzled by how quickly the generations
compound in this painstaking construction.

Development both internal and assembled
surpasses my wildest imaginings.
Amazement is my most constant companion,
more than gratitude

and as of late even outstripping willingness
my most trusted ally.
Shock has been replace by wonder,
bewilderment with surprise,

I am fortified with these feeling realities
and look happily to finishing the rest
of what is in that glass.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 4


HOW LIKE THE MOON

I show the shining, bright face to the world but can not enumerate the dark. I change and turn for all to see, glowing sliver to full fledged smile. I inventory all phases, can tell you from wax to wane, but the darkness, the anchor to my lonely life, I can only guess. I feel my way across the unknown topography, searching with fingertips and faith to find the secrets of this magic nightmare. And what? What is the thing to break it? Hope? Reverence? A detailed map? Or is the darkness just a fact? Part of the big equation, the equalizer of the light? If this is so, how best to live with it? Continue the search or post barriers? Go ever forward, looking for an answer? Endear myself to the void?
The choices are always mine. The way, seldom clear.


Breathe with power.

*

Today’s Math


Today is 12/06/06 this is an equation to me,
12 = 6 + 6, simple.
Not everything is, but math always works for me.
My Higher Power is math based
and one of my major decision making tools
is to run the equation of the presenting situation.

There are many constants in my life
and those numbers are easier to calculate
the variables often prove more difficult.
Scalable problems allow for my Geometry.
Proofs are a comfort when I can get them.
Set Theory is what I settle for when I can’t.

I try to show all my work
and have others check my calculations.
I can’t tell you how often a simple error
in addition or subtraction has fouled my whole equation
not to mention my equilibrium.

In conclusion I would like to say it is now 12= 9 + 6
and somehow I’ve lost three days, or did I gain them?
See how tricky the signs are.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 5



THE FORGOTTEN


"I am not Cleopatra; I am not in denial. I forgot."
“Sure,” says my sponsor, “I’ve seen the headdress.”
"That’s not fair! I’ve heard women say they forget the pain of childbirth."
“They’re kidding. You can’t just forget pain. It’s there waiting in the wings, looking for its fifteen minutes of fame.”
"And what if I don’t give pain its fifteen minutes?"
“You will be the worse for it,” she says with her smug way.
"What if I can’t drag it forward?"
“Honey, Baby, Sweetie, you need to let those things come up before they drag you back to a drink or whatever your new addiction of choice is. Just open your mind. You might be surprised what is waiting to see the light of day.”
"What if it kills me?"
“Darling you’re not that lucky. You don’t get to escape through death, either. Lean into this and you will get through it faster. Hold on to the program and you will get through it easier. Fight it and it will tear you up.”
Always the optimist, my sponsor.




Dispel assumptions, inhale willingness.
*



What is “offender” number 2?

I’m not looking for trouble, really I’m not,
it’s just that thanks to this program
I’m no longer plagued by resentment,
but I doubt that is the only stumbling block there is.

Possibly the remaining list is as divergent
as the alcoholics who make the lists.
Though I am guessing we have more in common
than that one thing.

I stare at the various and sundry bric-a-brac
measuring potential harm and formidability,
so many candidates with razor edges.

I take my combat pose as I lift the pen,
wondering if giving things status also gives them power.
I take comfort that acknowledgement is empowering for me.

Tell me the weights you lift
to strengthen your “Spiritual Muscle”
the things that crowd behind resentment
vying for their turn as perpetrator of downfall and misery.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 6


THE THRONG

The more people I meet, the more vehemently I do not believe in God. The tidal wave of human ignorance hits me and the sheer and repetitive force of it is more than my single souled craft can bear. Cyclical, coincidental tragedy coupled with purposeful meanness, barbed with arrogance and misaligned fear hold my child's faith under a scalding bath of realism. What to do? I do not know.
The fragility and perniciousness of life war with each other, though loss wins out. What can I use to keep myself from withdrawal into despondent hibernation? Looking for glimmers of goodness in the sea of overwhelming depravity is not cutting it with me. Mystery as an explanation is not working either. I am not a retarded five-year-old; I am a despairing thirty-eight-year-old and I am tired of game-playing and coyness. I want a God to arrive, not with explanations, but solutions. I am not looking for a punishing parent to send errant persons to bed without supper. I am looking for the equation of repair, the dance steps to healing. I am yearning for a global twelfth step, a universal attunement and galactic spiritual awakening. And by the way, I want it now.

If you can’t write, sing.

*

More Than Less



There is a difference between
doing G-d’s will and winning,
though sometimes they look the same.

Skin deep appearance or monetary prowess
share no border with the will of G-d,
but these can stack as transparencies
seeming invisible to the uninitiated practitioner.

The organs exist and blood flows in the living thing
and the shell is hard, lifeless; though it glints.
Success can be the mantel of right compliance
or the shroud of something deadly.

I mustn’t be pushed or pulled by the desire
of accolades or acceptance,
nor shall I flee into a trap for fear of ridicule or rejection.

The lacerations of emotional infliction,
unloving judgments and imprudent fallout
cause me to flinch in the face of changing focus
and relinquishing hope of control.

I am powerless over everything and responsible to everything.
Anything else is incidental
and with loving help will work out if I do not panic.

Ah, to love myself as G-d loves me.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 7

THE SEAMLESS DOOR


Tongue and groove fit tight; the pickled boards belie the passage. Hinges buried deep, secreted inside the place with no words, the door remains shut, hidden. The air, candy sweet, the space, filled with the unbroken stream of surreal childhood. What can I tell you of this living snapshot? Nothing but the haltings, stops and shudders of a life encapsulated. Proudly, I walk from this train wreck only to find the tether stitched to my heart, my soul, my mind. Flashing through the room, I weary and wonder. I have often found myself outside this confusing destination, but never have I seen the door. Always, I believe, this time I am free of it. When I find myself again within this realm, I know it is something I can not be parted from.
Then what of the door? The undetected portal was spied by me one day while it swung in the breeze. I saw the simple barn and the open loft door; I never thought my incubus to be housed in so plain a construction. There the turmoil of my forward motion stored in the attic of the pony shed. So many tragic contrivances are stored in such candid spots. Accessibility is the beginning of approach; I take the stairs.

Remember willingness doesn’t need to float; it swims

*
Two Powers



The river and the bridge;
one force swift and roiling
the other stolid and stoic,

The first carries me away
and the other carries me over.
For the love of liquid, current and life
I have slipped in to the water
and washed; my life abandoned.

For love of upright contact,
terra bound movement and love
I cross the bridge.

Will I be deposited in the Ocean
or wend to the City and back?
Where is the greater power
in Surrender or Choice?



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

[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 11


UNIFIED THEORY

When I build the circuit correctly the light comes on. When I heal the shards together the bell rings. If I am meticulous and attentive, if the world is gracious and bares herself to my mind, I will see how everything fits. I know the reflexive nature of things, and the way life folds one thing inside the other. Whale song is a long slow underwater birdcall. Moon rise, sun rise, then the moon again. The universe works without my interference but also without my complete understanding. I am learning how to be a part of this beautiful maze; I long to comprehend it. The weeds are trying to take back the city. If I lay down maybe they will take me back, too. If I keep my eyes open I might see it all unfold. Conception without is my desire within.



Make emotional bouquets for your mind.
*


Recognition

All I have are these two hands
I can not lift the world
All I have are these two legs
I can not flee the hoards

All I have is this one heart
though need and want prevail
All that’s left is this one mind
to try to tell this tale.

Everything in this bright orb
is there for me to see
Everything laid out before me
all that I can be

Everything that I perceive as wrong
and know it in my heart
Everything I think to touch
and change believing it’s my art

Once I take the giant reins
acceptance escapes the scene
Once the fates are in my grasp
chaos is the theme

Once the sight of my right place
is lost from in my mind
Once I try to fill the great big shoes
is the day that I go blind.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 12


MY TALE

I must be my own tattletale. I must give my sponsor bullets to shoot down my disease. Anything I protect and nurture will grow and overtake me. It is up to me to choose if I will feed my ailment or my health. My life will be consumed, that is a guarantee; all things feed into others. The direction this meal takes is my daily decision. The bull’s eye can be hit if I describe the target. The ending will be happy if the story I tell is my own.



Calculate the risk and build a bridge.

*

Rebellion Dogs

“Rebellion dogs our every step at first”
AA’s 12 and 12

They won’t come to heal, won’t sit, won’t stay,
these dogs circle waiting for signs of weakness
or vulnerable skin, but there they are;
they have been found out.

The ones that worry me more
are those that took show and place,
the dogs that stand in the shadows and lurk in the wing.

What are their names I wonder?
Their distinctive smell?
Must I identify these writhing mutts
or simply call animal control?

Though this never worked with rebellion dogs
these lesser pups surely would run
from would be dog catchers and leave me to my dreams.

Alas, I name them and show them to my friends;
we like they run in packs
and are served well by honest disclosure.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 13


NIGHT FLIGHT

The small log shape with large wings passed the windshield of my moving car without collision, due to meticulous calculation and correction in a night sky. Silent passage… swift and meaningful, the owl lives as it knows how. I was not born to the night; darkness not my given realm. I have inverted my senses and compensated for the moonlight. I pull my way through the air and hunt for my survival in a world of shadows. The morsels caught on the wing, snatches of conversations and lines from books, sustain me, give me strength to live in spite of the nocturnal bondage. I have made peace with the night. I am changed by my living and my living endures. The grace required to abide here is bestowed on me nightly. I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.


Write a letter home to you.

*

Whittle it Down


A famous sculptor mentioned
that he doesn’t so much create the objects
as remove the stone which doesn’t belong.

I have had the same experience with willingness.
Encased in the bedrock of my will
willingness had no opportunity to open doors.

Flaking away the extraneous
the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental.
As the tears stream down my face
and wrong thinking flies from my brain
the key is more finely formed.

As I wheedle at misconception
and haul bodily wrong action
the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun.

Many doors stand ajar,
at first those with basic tumblers,
but now even those with encrypted defense
are no match for the willingness,
which I wield with rapier wit.

The obvious blocks to progress open to me
as well as the subtle doors to untold destination,
I am let out of danger, released into possibility.




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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 14


TRAVELING PICTURES

I parked next to a beaten little import. The well of the passenger’s side was filled with empty sport-drink bottles and cans from soda. The dashboard was a shrine: three taped photographs, one of a young man and young woman, one of the young woman and an older woman, one of the young woman and an enormous marble statue. There were small carved objects affixed to the dash: jade and soapstone figures, beads and a feather. The sanctuary in my head is decked out in a similar manner. Post card pictures line my mind: people I love, trips I took, pets long gone. The road signs of my journey stand as exhibits of a tour of duty not always to my liking but nothing I would trade. I know clearly where I have been, and study the map to prepare for the future. Escapades and loved ones, trinkets strung on my lifeline give texture, flavor and flash to my pilgrimage.


Think of fish and dream of birds.



*
Progressive Fourth


All I can do is stand on the grass
and count the shutters, the windows, the doors.
At first I cannot approach to inspect any closer than that.

Time passes and the other steps work me.
I peer through the windows the next time
and count the stuffs I can glimpse through the glass.

I possess no periscopic vision,
but what is in plain sight I reckon.
Subsequently I wished to exteriorize
and draw the inventory of the house
out onto the lawn and tally there.

Wishing to avoid that interior life,
the poisoned vixen who haunted there.
Time passed and she recovered as did I,

Into the house I went.
I am now able not only to number my possessions
I can assess the flow and function,
work patterns, interplay, reliability.

I have now appraised not just the what,
but the how of my life
and progress into tomorrow.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 15

SHAME

I push shame around my plate like a chunk of spoiled meat, the toxins leaching to every interface and cavity. With an inverse half-life, the lethal substance grows, reinforcing, sending runners and tendrils to worlds known and those yet undiscovered. I wage my war on this shape-shifting plague. Thrust and parry, I step back from the insurmountable walls and set my sights on tearing down the bunkers in my personal city. Like lead plumbing, the danger eludes the observation of my fellow citizens. I am labeled a lunatic and no attention is paid to my evaluations of water quality. I search for similarly crazed friends, variants within a theme. I depend on the poisoned sanity of my wounded compatriots. We shovel the plate loads of spoiled meat and detritus. The foreshortened mountain of shame allows tiny strands of light to glimmer across the surface but the shamed devotees turn their heads. We, the few, face this glowering mass. I worry like a petulant child. What if we can not prevail? Is shame stronger than recovery? Have we traveled this far to miss the glacier’s edge as it slides away from us? I console myself with the sure knowledge: this life of sobriety is better than any other offering. Healing the world, what a lovely thought. Living free from shame today, what a necessity.



Crumple a sacred cow then iron it flat.
*


ONE


One skin, One mind, One spirit, One day

If I live in more than my own skin,
I am a body snatcher and ghoul.
If I live in a duality of thought I am ejected,
ostensibly out of my mind.

If I redouble my spirit
the increase takes a dark cold turn
and I am lost.

If I try to live two days at a time
the sand shifts in the glass
and I am worse off in that hour than Dorothy.

This skin is all I can be in,
as many times as I walk in someone else’s shoes
it’s the skin I’m in.

This mind is my only bequest,
treasure enough to earn my keep.
Free as this spirit is it is still tied at the heel
and like my shadow it remains.

And today is the only day where the magic works,
witches melt and clicking my heels gets my attention
even if it doesn’t always take me home.




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]

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 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

[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.


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

[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.”


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 1


WANTING

“Wanting to be alive is not as important as wanting to do right," said my sponsor.
“I don’t want to be here," I half blurted, half sobbed.
“I know," came the reply. “Many of us come in not wanting to live.”
“But sobriety is about living.”
“Yes, and you want to be sober,” said my sponsor.
“But I don’t want to live.”
“This moment. This moment you don’t want to live but you still want to be sober. You still want to do right.”
“Yes.”
“And that is what you’ll do. You’ll pick up the tools as you have done so often and you will try everything suggested. You’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?”
“You’ll keep it up and see how you feel the next day.”
“What if I never feel better?”
“Ah, well. When have you ever had anything that dependable?”


Don’t force joy to simmer let it boil over.
*



Van and I
(Happy cleaning windows)



When the fog clears and I still can’t see,
I check my optics and wash my windows.
The mundane upkeep hones my pursuit.

After the weather and housekeeping concerns
are managed, eye exercises are next on the agenda.
I have to strengthen my equipment,
stay fit or fall prey to vagaries
of nearsighted limits or farsighted failings.

Myopia is an ever present danger
I must guard against as well.
A fixed focus is a death trap.

I must learn to track a moving target
while I wend onward.
Nothing in life is stationary;
concentration and a decent line of sight
are priceless rudiments.

Continual practice with the tools and tactics
build my confidence and sharpen wit.
Burdens are lightened
when I see my goal in stark relief;

I can chart my path and make my way.
Sobriety means if I can see it I can believe it,
so I best go get the Windex.


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]

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]

March 8



YOU ARE ALLOWED TO CLOSE WINDOWS OR KEEP THEM OPEN

Not every open window offers a warm and welcome breeze. There are windows, which greet with artic blast and little else. Frosted cheeks and chapped lips, I face these frigid openings believing it is my lot to forge ahead in this bluster. Never did I think to shut the glass on this disagreeable weather. I am allowed to close windows but I didn’t know it. Every irksome thing that comes my way is not mine to face; many things will pass my way. This does not make them my responsibility. On the other hand, when spring blows honeysuckle through the air, it is a fine idea to prop the window open with a stick.


Wave gently good-bye to yesterday.


*

Migration

Why does an alcoholic leave the drink behind?
To go where it’s warm,
because drunkenness has become cold comfort,
because the climate has changed.

The wind resists the flight from the bottle
and the initiative to break the flow
is rotated among the flock.

Though each member of the band plays their part,
the one diverting the air just ahead of me
and the one just behind trumpeting
still hold the majority of my attention.

Flocking is my primary purpose
because survival is the intention of life,
demise the intent of my illness.

One more sober day is all I can ask,
it’s all I ever need,
it’s all that’s ever offered.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 9



PICTURES AND FRAMES


I paint my way into the corners of the frame. Each picture I fill diligently, color, texture, all the tricks I use. I work hard to get the desired effect. I hold nothing back; I put heart and hopes forward. I load my brush with pigment; I propel my tongue out of my mouth. I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses its tail. Stroke after stroke, I layer the image. My depiction is fresh to me. I bring the green, the red, the blue, blue, blues; all of those flow from me. The canvas fills; my soul soars through the tinctures. Then the disappointment begins, the complaint and lamentations. The perspective is off. I can’t seem to contain this scene within the confines of this gilded prison. I re-adjust. I tilt my head; I paint from the bottom up, then the top down. No, no. I must pick up a new canvas, the frame oak, burnished and honeyed brown. I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing; I lay it along the wall with the others, the many discards of life. As yet, the obvious has escaped me; the tint, the hue, angle, size may diverge but that is all. I have recreated the same scene in all the frames. In all my attempts, I have painted only one picture.



Learn your process.
*

Résistance


Resisting tough love
is approaching long run action
with short run thinking.

I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall,
but in the end if I do not put him down
he and I will both be the worse for it.

Whether I see a forest or I see trees
depends so very much on my perspective,
also on my willingness to delay
the prevention of minor scrapes
to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.

The theme is greater personal responsibility
and less irrational fear.
Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities
by not hamstringing them today
through the resistance of tough love
saves lives, it saves mine.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 10



VOLUNTARY MUTE

I have learned I don’t have to answer just because someone asks. I have learned to change subjects. I have learned it is better to say nothing. Repeating the phrase, ‘it’s just my opinion,’ followed with, ‘I could be wrong,’ has proven insufficient. Somehow things frequently turn out worse than I expected but, as of yet, none have turned out better; this upsets. People become angry when I am correct; they are less angry when I’m silent. I tell the truth and trouble follows. I didn’t get sober to lie. So, I keep my mouth shut. There is no reason to distress folks, and reality has a way of doing that. Silence is my new defense. I hide inside of it and find my new freedom. Unless it concerns my sponsor, my sponsee, or my cherished friend, battening down the hatches saves me from a tempest and spares others their outbursts.



Persuade yourself to breathe.

*

Conception 2

My active voice is the elixir of fire
my addiction would have me snuff
in order to keep us hidden from each other,
me hidden from you, you hidden from me
and no one noticing you or I pouring the drinks.

Minus my active voice
I slip easily into unconsciousness,
my effectiveness doused.

My active voice is the light in my room
the candle in my window,
the glow within me,
which illuminates my days as well as my nights.

Moving ever forward the gyroscopic precision
of this voice never fails me
if I keep my “listening ears” turned on and tuned in.

My active voice is and will always be
the live wire connection of my Higher Power
uniting with me through people, places and things.

My effective conscience
is everything that results from this bond.
I run at an unfathomable rate of efficiency
when my active voice is on,
my feet fail to touch the ground as I fly to right action,

The nature of my effective conscience
is just that, nature,
as natural as if I were not carrying a fatal malady,
but instead possessed the secret to serenity,
which in fact I do: sobriety.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 11



THE WALL OF PLEASANT


How quickly I am protected by a sweet smile. A disarming countenance and a gentle phrase save my skin and psyche. No longer do I defend my reputation as a wit or critic. I let it all flow by. The simpler I appear the more effective the facade. The energy I conserve not fighting losing battles is well spent in the company of like-minded sober friends in the pursuit of sober lives. I stay out of the fray and behind this partition. Its insides are posted with announcements proclaiming my opinion and the lunacy of the person on the other side. The reading of these notices does not persuade me to dismantle the enclosure but encourages me to keep it sound. Many years of shelter behind this now vine covered fortification allow restraint of my words, spoken and written, to safeguard my sanity. When I am gifted with comment, I am spared the desire for credit. Boundaries are a blessing and living within them a saving grace.


Reconnect to hope.
*


Creed
We have a long standing family tradition
of viewing miracles as tragedy;
this custom has afforded us many
a fine escape from the unknown.

Most things in life are bad; people, places, things,
this belief is protective though useless.
Ultimately I feel this belief is not what colors
the dynastic impression of the miraculous,
but the apprehension is due to the limited nature of the thing.

I come from a line of dissatisfaction;
miracles are provided when what is desired is panacea.
If everything is not imperially resolved
then it is all for naught

Because the same psyche
which cannot begin a process
without a guaranteed outcome
can’t pickup the slack after a triumphant start.

Give it all to me tied with a bow,
I will begin the critique from there
though I will accept, offer me a beginning
fraught with uncertainty and I will decline.

A secure entrenchment is preferred to inexact risk.
I will die with my boots on,
but I mustn’t leave the house.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 12



SPIRITUALITY

The bedpan of spirituality was shoved under my ass in early sobriety. It kept me from increasing the mess with which I surround myself. The cold smack of enamel got my attention. The old timers showed me there is a place for my shit; it was not any of the places I had been using. Discretion is the better part of everything. I needn’t show my backside everywhere I go. My side, your side, all sides were strewn with my waste. Fragments, tatters and fearful reminders were all there for me to clean up. Amends as the shovel and willingness as its handle are what I use to clear my past. Sweat is refreshing when progress is being made. I’ve made inroads; paths of travel help me move easily from the past to the present without regret.


Write directions to your heart.



*
Wax On


“Sometimes a dish is just a dish,” I said to my sponsor.
“Yes and sometimes it is the world away,
which you hold in your hand,” her reply.

I stand at the sink and try to wash the dishes
when I am washing the dishes.
I try to drive the car when I drive the car.

These simple acts of concentration
focus and sooth the jagged mental sutures
where I am supposed to be coming together,
but ultimately come apart.

Anything to break my frenetic gyrations is a blessing,
anything to cut away to a closer view
and a clearer understanding of where I really am;

Anything to derail the speeding blur
of a life of my creation, is good.
What I do and who I am are secrets and mysteries
when I don’t know how to pay attention
and ironies when I do.

And if you doubt me, just go ask Arnold.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 13


FRIENDS

My sweet, dear, funny friend, steeped in Beat, whose hand I can no longer hold. I yearn for the wildly flying words, like feathers in a snow. The shock of hair and glinting eyes I see so clearly in my shivering mind. I must let go. I miss all the friends who for reason or no have traveled down the yellow brick spiral to who knows where. My arms feel open and starved but there is no way for me to retain myself and follow them. Some are lost all together; some are lost only to me but my arms remain empty nonetheless. My ruined heart is sore and sad but chasing this friend or that will not heal it. The lonely path before me is the answer for me, possibly only for me among our former group. And will the paths cross later in this day or the next? I don’t know and am better not knowing. My path requires me to release outcomes as well as kindred. I must travel with my arms open; some fall out of them and others find their way in.


Organize a loophole and escape through it.
*



Three Card Monty


When I learn to excel at the good games
and learn to leave the bad ones alone
I think I will be alright.

Simple enough to do when I can take off this blindfold
and see the long term consequences of my pursuits.
Engage this pastime and have no future;
abandon that play and squander hope.

Eyes open wide, I see what there is to see,
but around the corner I am lost for anticipatory sight
and must guess at destinations, let alone intention.

Tricky, tricky, is this life which toys with me. I
I think I have the bow in hand,
though as life rubs me wrong then right,
I see I am played upon as much and as often as I play.

I take up the reins, but must also be led,
I can lay out the deal,
but sometimes I just have to roll the dice.


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

[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.


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

[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


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

[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.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 17


UNNECESSARY WORDS

I’ve spent years trying to put names on the streets in my twelfth step map, post clear signs with monikers easy to remember, themed and progressive. But I have been wasting my time. The map is there, no doubt, and I have seen people follow it to varying degrees. The names are unnecessary. Like ants, we trail each other’s scent. We track closely so as not to lose visual contact; we don’t play with our survival. Or we are bees standing in front of the meeting, doing the dance, which describes the path to sobriety with meaningful jokes and well-earned tears. As I stand at the foot of a few twenty-fours and see the evolution of my recovery, I realize the names in the placards are ever changing. Meaning and value pour through the kaleidoscope of time and come out as indescribable gifts, which I can only give through action. I will no longer fritter away my time looking for tags and titles.



Rename your problems.
*


Malaria


Flailing, reaching, screaming;
hiding, avoiding, misdirecting,
theses are subsets in a list of extremes
whose commonality is lacking, lacking humility.

I fall to pieces just thinking of standing exposed,
imperfect and unprotected.
I’m not sure what I think will happen to me
in this posture; instantaneous death?

Couldn’t be, I’m not that lucky,
nor am I foolish enough to think that I am that lucky.
Possibly, I fear rancorous humiliation,
but really who is powerful enough to do that to me?

I know and like myself well enough
to deflect obvious flying nonsense,
so what is it that I do flee?

I think it is the endless grinding inelegance of life,
the stinging nettled nature of things,
my inability to weave my way around
my weakness and slip into the open unpoisoned.

I fear exchanging peace for failure.
Humility is when I know I cannot fail.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 18


OLD BEARS

Cold and despondent, nothing comforts me like the bear of early sobriety. Bought on a day I thought I would shake apart, this fuzzy old guy has been a display item for many years now, tucked to the corner with the lace edged pillows and folded shawls. Jittery and sleepless, it’s so easy to panic. I turn and see the amber eyes waiting for my embrace. His body is clothed in a hand knit child’s sweater made by a friend; the warmth of this snuggle is more than comfort. It is also the acceptance of loss. Quelling the dramatic highs and lows of the beginning costs many things and the depth of this is not lost in the moment. Alone in my bed, I see the passageway to the future appearing before me. I must rest and then walk on. I cannot stall or simper. Plain work is before me and simple old bear’s a consolation.


Journal your optimism.


*
If I Name it do I Know it?


Does emotional proximity necessitate a nearer name?
Far off I would be called earthling possibly human.
On this plain, female maybe woman;
In this country Mrs. Theriault;
In my home call me Sherrie,
but in my bed hy calls me Baby.

Do these names offer the requisite information,
no further inquiries required, is it personal enough?
Is the limited nature a stunted interest
from without or a privacy fence from within?

Does the boundary shift dependent upon the participants
or is it an almost universal standard
of metered advance and reveal?
And do I get more when I give more
or does that end in less info and a change of direction?

Also who determines what I really need to know?
Wanting curiosity; my hungry mind and lonely heart
do not direct all the world, yet ceaselessly they strive,
shutter and ask again: Who are you?

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

[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



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

[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.”


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

[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.



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

[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.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 23



MISSING


The good times we never had but should have, the pleasantries I endured waiting for the pleasure. I remembered your potential with fondness. The days, weeks and years I waited for you to grow to me have passed, and yet--- time is what I have, not you. Hope is a wonderful thing until it turns on me and bites. Images I built have tumbled and colors wash from your portrait. I carefully remind myself it’s the idea of you I miss, not you.


Practice your manners on yourself.
*



Water Buddha


The longer on the river I am
the less I fear the river.
I still don’t know what lay ahead,
anything may wait for me
just around the next bend,
but I fear this less and less.

Experience is a great foundation
no matter what you are building
or in which direction.

I’ve gotten my sea-legs,
a sure sign of the mind cooperating
with the realities the body is experiencing.

I have learned to avoid some forms of trouble
and anticipate fortune more often.
Further on could be a waterfall, ocean or dam;

I will contend with any or all, come what may,
for when it comes to riding the river
I have learned the most important thing:
I don’t need to push.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 24

PARADOX OF PARADISE

Paradise is created when I collect paradox and live with it. Paradise is the set of acceptance and suspended disbelief. If anything is possible, accepting what comes is less heart-wrenching. If I arrest my misgivings, gratification in the voluptuousness of now is velvet. Vague consent is a Hell of incapacity. Fighting fiercely for both sides keeps the heart pumping and the mind at bliss. I must work to embrace contradiction and happiness. There is more than one path to take and I must take that one.


When you give time also take time.


*
Two X’s


I play sport at the three X folks
and their still sometimes skewed thinking.
Yet, I attack myself for feeling like a babe in the woods.

Old and wise should be my stock and trade by now though
I find vastness at my door regularly
and confidence struggles to peek in the window.

What in the world will I do if I can’t perfect this stuff soon?
Hopefully nothing as foolish as fretting
or anything as mean spirited as accusation.

Possibly I could try reception.
Truly this only comes in gift wrap and after twenty years
I would hope I had learned to live in the present.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 25


THE ORDER

I can’t expect delivery if I haven’t placed the order. I never seem to know what I want until after I have accepted something else. I can remember thinking order meant procedure not procurement---set the table, not end my hunger. I focused on rational intent and turned my face from desire. Assailing outcomes leads to disappointments. Asking for a hole to be filled may cause dumping not management or conservation. It’s good to have a plan before signing the requisition. Please help me know who I am, so I will know what I want, so I can make a request and stop accepting orders of attack. Don’t let me order the end while I am still at the beginning.



Self-respect is the gift you bring to everyone.
*

Whirly Gigs



Pivot points and reference points
subtlety disguised as harmless bric-a-brac
escape my comprehension until I either stumble
or land on one or the other and ponder the affect.

Realization that much of my life’s contentment
hinges like a door shocks me,
though I don’t know why it should.

Isn’t it the way of things that it all turns on a whim
or at the very least hangs on fine gauged calculation?

I am not the capricious vixen I accuse myself of;
I am however human
and given to a certain amount of fickle fussy frenzy
which all reckons out given enough perspective and wit.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 26



THE ORPHANAGE OF MY HEART


The orphanage of my heart holds many children, children of my past. They gaze at me, fixed in an attempt to draw me near their needs. I scurry, often my head down, eyes averted, not knowing how to offer comfort or consideration to these hapless souls. Fearing the largesse of the poverty, I decline to open my small purse. What could I tender other than a tease? Nearly barren in my heart-broken, disconsolate, inconsolable state, I rarely even obligate myself to extending my hand. This is the pit of my idiocy. These wee ones have the world of hope and strength to give. I am their offertory. I am the place where their gold resides. They live inside me to fill me and bind me to life and light. I flee them in the height of misunderstanding. Disconnected from these inner spirits, I am impoverished and far too weak to grasp their help. Too fogged to see the world within, I starve in the world without.


Incubate an idea.


*

New Borne


What happens when you finally get what you want,
what you barely dared to dream?
What happens when you can hardly do more
than drip tears down from smiling eyes?
Where do you go with a future filled with proposed joy?

Heaven is an option if only you believed,
but hell has been such a perennial destination
it’s hard to realize there will be no return trip this year
or possibly ever again.

The work required to change
from an attitude of longing to one of satisfaction
is as real as all the work needed thus far.

Tending love is a host of disciplines
I want to step to, like I have done it all my life,
like I was born to do it
and I was,

Still growth is accompanied
by its own pain and awkwardness
and who am I to deny this treat.
Any new life worth living
is worth the pain to bear it.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 27



CALIBRATE COINCIDENCE


Do good. Do right. Line up with the next correct movement. Get the universe locked into the sprockets of my desires and make the miracles flow in my direction. Ah, the boy scout merit badge of sobriety. I force spiritual alchemy through the pasta maker of my small life expecting gold. And where is God? Where is the realness of reality? Where is my place in this hairy mess? Well, who knows? Am I the wizard? The Chemist? The mechanic of the galaxy? Though I wish and hope, in truth, I am not the one who calibrates coincidence. I am the receiver of.


Date your recovery.
*


Feelings/Facts

Delay is when I don’t deal with the tack,
don’t deal with the finish nail,
land up with a 12 penny in my heel
and think about waiting for the railroad spike.

Rebellion is when I run through the razor-wire fence
expecting to make a clean get away.
If I don’t socialize my problems when they are puppies
all hope is lost when faced with the big dogs.

Exiting out the fifth story window is suicide in fact,
but in my thinking I am merely rebelling.
Willingness and cooperation make a dynamic duo;
powerful combatants of delay, rebellion,
and many other joy killing, life stealing foes.

A life led with cooperation and willingness
is not necessarily perfection,
but it often feels that way.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 28

FEELINGS

Getting my feelings back was like a package delivered---not a letter bomb, more like live squid or bait of some kind. It was something to catch me out there. I think overcoming the shock was more or less the small part, though it seemed to loom at the time. The squirming, the writhing of my soul was like a pregnancy following a bad dream. I wondered how this became a part of me. I squandered my days hoping it would leave quietly some night soon. Like all difficult relationships, I attempted to hold my breath through it. Failing this, I tried to offer my feelings a guest wing in my heart and a never-ending supply of tea and cookies. When the reality of life with feelings planted itself firmly in me, I let out my breath, stopped the hostess act and endeavored to roll with it. This worked well. I have since invested in a wet- suit and fins. The squid are much easier to live with when I meet them on their turf.


Sponge off what life flings at you.

*


Yes, Virginia there is a solution

Suspended in the colloid of sobriety
the overly large molecule, which is me,
finds a fix I couldn’t imagine.

I can get better, I do get better,
I have a set of values to substitute into the old equations.
I now live in a mixture where there is one thing in common
and all the rest are variants which ordinarily don’t mix.

The scientific method is entry to homogenous living;
a concept that never made it to the table
in my days as a rogue element.

And with all this on board,
the thing I love the best is that it grows;
what I can do and how I can do it
is an ever widening frame of reference,

Even things which were once outside of my view
are now possible.
I am grateful that there is a solution
I am amazed that it is the solution to everything.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
Sober On The Way To Sane: Sherrie T.: 9781440417344: Amazon.com: Books
More Lines From My Life: Sherrie Theriault: 9781448677207: Amazon.com: Books

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 29

FUTURE TENTS

The future seeps in through the windows, like the dawn stealing across the sky. Once I inhale it, I am out of doors, only the lightest of canvas covering me. The opening flaps in the breeze. The wind of unbidden things echoes off the walls of people shut out from this adventure. I brace myself for the cutting current but am greeted by the softest of zephyrs. I duck out. I stand unfettered. Lonely whispers call but I am isolated. The scene is empty, serene and beautiful. There are other tents, other seekers standing on other hills but they see their own futures from the vantage of their own tents and thankfully I am left to see mine.


Tape a coin to the place you sleep.

*
Catalog of Growth

The right seed in the right season
grows a garden of miracles for me.
I get the food for my table
or the stores for winter.

Sometimes when I’m in a Jack like predicament,
right planted seeds can provide a bean stalk
of escape from my restricted life.

I have a role to play with these wonders.
I must sort the seeds from the pebbles.
I must let the kernels out of my pocket
and into the ground.

I water when I can
and harvest what comes to fruition.
Though the best by far
is the part when I get to share the seeds.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 30



CRAZY


I try on crazy, the way I sometimes get out the jump rope, and see if all those muscles still work. The unemployed, unexploited, fallow nature of my once fertile insanity saddens me in an odd way. Today is a place I stand in stiff comfort, though it has taken concerted effort to get here. There are days I slip from reality, the way I can slip off a chair. I no longer allow myself to lounge on the floor. Pride is not so much the issue as hygiene. Crazy is bad for my health. I gave it up like cigarettes or romance novels; I don’t have enough time or insurance for these dalliances, though I do remember them all with fondness.


Allow yourself a favorite spoon.
*


Face and Ass


“It is hard to save your face
and save your ass at the same time.”

What I haven’t tried
in an attempt to live my life as a showman
spotlight front and center.

What I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep
peace and image intact,
but in the end it was just that,
my end, that saved me from
a life chasing prevention of defacement.

I can’t live with the posture of an ostrich
it leaves so much at risk.
Hiding my face won’t protect it
no matter how much I wish it would.

I have to put my butt in a seat,
a seat up front where folks get to know my face.
I have to try my best yet still make mistakes
and let people know my ass as well.

Being a part of AA saves my behind,
once that is cosseted
my face might just get its day in the sun.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 31

BLUE CROWS

Blue crows streak across my dreaming mind’s sky; they take up their post in a line of trees. I stand at the edge of a burning field. I feel nauseous at the thought of glorifying an ‘active’ life. Everything is burned, scarred and crumpled; the flashy crows call from the hedgerow. I know it’s time to fly. The fire is out and I have work to do to keep the sparks and dormant embers from ruining another harvest. I must travel with these strange birds and live an odd but regimented life. I needn’t scorch my feet on this ground again but, like my companions, must spend some time in survey. If I do not fully assess this damage, I might not fully embrace this dawn.


Bury your dead issues.


*
Why is it so hard to be me?

I have everything I could wish for.
I have love and friendship,
I have talent and ability.

What more could I want?
I don’t want more,
I want to learn how to overcome fear
and live with disappointment.

Abundance is ever at the door,
but I have no room for plenty.
Reassurance is the thing I chase after,
yearn for, pine about, but it is an illusive thing
like taking hold of smoke.

Allusion is the gift-wrap of reality
the unwrapping often puts me off the contents;
regaining my composure and reestablishing willingness
is a difficult job requiring dedication and fortitude.

The barrier before the carefree me
is thought, the strongest of all substance.
I must heal the calcifications of my mind and resist rigidity.
My thinking is what makes being me problematic
without it I am nothing at all.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

To the beginning of year three!

http://www.pavorealgallery.com/zencart/images/Tree%20Frogs.jpg

[Daktari]

To the beginning of year three!



Bring it! I'm ready! ...couldn't have said that last week.

:tea:

Thank-you Sherrie, for having faith in me when I cannot; For being the longest serving member of my 'We' people, It's a hard job but someone has to do it :vigil:
Thank-you for our ongoing froggy friends, they're one of the few constants in my world :cheesy: I adore them.

hpiIWMWWVco

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 1

RAIN

The rain makes shadows of water. It spills onto the ground like tiny worlds. What had been airborne and mist is now earthbound and integral, feeding, cutting, learning the world. Once I contemplated theories and mystery. Now, washing dishes is a spiritual service. The view was lovely when I was above it all but now I course through the veins of life. There may come a time when I am untouchable again but by then I will have been a part of it all. I will carry the world with me always, an orbiting servant not just above but through.


Engrave compliments in your mind.

*
Clock and Calendar Girl


I depend on the count and measure of time to get me through.
The swing of the pendulum carries me from moment to moment
and the divisions between days are like the rungs on a ladder;

I climb from month to month and age to age.
When I hold my breath I count the tic, tic, tic
till the difficult time passes and I can inhale once more.

Harder things require X’s in their numbered boxes
to help me transverse the larger distance and rockier terrain.
Take away my clock and I go deaf,
remove my calendar and I go blind.
Tools are tools even if they only aid sight and sound.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 2


PADUANS


The pussy willows bloom looking much like crested poultry. The coldest part of my heart is fighting to thaw in this early spring. Weather is not of the mind to be rushed. Neither my hopes nor the changing calendar can persuade the warmth into the May mornings. It’s May for me, too, no longer the early sobriety of January. The years have marched on; I wait for the delivery of my returning brains. Long term sobriety has begun but I am still beset with the chill of fragility. I desire dignity and find myself strutting like a fowl with blooming plumage, addled and gawky.
“Don’t worry,” says my sponsor, “the pussy willow is in no way less for showing itself in the rawness of growth.”



Listen to the sounds of your life.
*


Unfettered


“The difference between a demand and a request
is apparent to everyone.”
A drunk once said this and I hold it to my heart.
I can not be bullied or swindled into a corner;
neither will I allow you to put a rope around my neck
like a wayward calf.

I obey because it works for me
and if you teach me that you are untrustworthy
or careless I will obey you no longer,
this doesn’t make me less obedient
it just takes you out of the lead.

Sometimes I hold the reins
and most times they are in the hands of God,
but never shall my reins be in the hands of another,
this is what I drank over
and this is what I could drink over again.

No one person is my salvation
and I cannot allow anyone to be my demise.
If you consume me like a drink,
I will kill you as surely as any drug.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 3


ACCEPTANCE, ACTION, CHANGE

Acceptance equals action. Without action, acceptance is a death sentence. Action puts me in the hands of my Higher Power; inaction puts me at the mercy of others, or worse, self-justification. For acceptance to glow with life, it must be moving.
Action equals change. Action without change is repetition. The moon does not change. It orbits flat on its face, forever dark on one side and a mere reflection on the other. Change sparks possibilities in mundane endeavor.
Change equals acceptance. Change without acceptance is a walk off a cliff. For change to endure, agreement is necessary. A one-sided argument is fascism and fraudulence. The heart of change is acceptance, beating the blood of hope to the extremities. Whether we circle the heavens or the bowl depends on the cohesion of acceptance, action and change.


Listen to new music, sing old music.

*
Give Me a Goose Any Day

The geese breaking wind resistance,
the close ones,
the far ones,
the ones behind trumpeting
this is the gang who gets me sober
and keeps me that way.

Maybe you think that God is not a flock of geese,
but it has been my experience
and the honking and the mess are part of it all.
I spend my days making sure I am one of them.

Sometimes I am even in the lead,
which may seem like a place of honor and prestige,
but is actually a lot of hard work.

Sometime I am the cheering squawker
who makes my encouragement heard.
Other times I am the one waddling around
leaving an untidiness behind me.

All of this just makes me part of the flock.
I am especially fond of my nest mates
though they are often the ones I chase
and bluster at the most.

I feel a sense of identity and pride
when I see any goose flying high
and I know that because we don’t do it alone
we are able to do it together.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 4



THE SCULPTOR

I'm stuck in a block; my sponsor chips away at me. I struggle to hold still. With surgical precision, she cuts through the debris with which I have surrounded myself. After my sponsor frees my hand and arm, she places a hammer in my open fingers. When the other arm and hand are rescued, she places a chisel in that hand. This is how, before my head showed above the surface, I began to help in my own restoration. I am the sculptor the program has made me. Recovery has taught me I can be anything if I keep chipping away at the things that hold me hostage. As time travels on, I am a new shape with each turn through the steps and have an ever-lustrous finish with every application of the traditions.



Everything has its own intelligence and you do, too.
*


Please Sir

Gratitude is a thing which collects and solidifies,
it’s pink and I can walk around on it.
Some days it is a broad highway
and other times a winding spindling track.

Ever present if I am mindful
gratitude roots out pests and pestilence
while planting a garden beyond my dreams.

Gratitude is like handholding
it warms and strengthens me, k
keeps me connected to real life
and reassures me that I am not alone.

Many days I find a way to make a face and pout,
plundering the rich rewards of sobriety
for the thin gruel of discontent,

Poke me with a stick on these days
and remind me who I am,
for I am never Oliver even if I feel a little twist.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 5

STOP TALKING


“Try to stop talking when people stop listening,” said my sponsor. “And try not to take it personally.”
“Why is that?” I query.
“Most individuals can’t handle much of anything real. Try as they may, they are unable to listen to anyone speaking the truth. Tell them a story; you can hold their attention all day. Sprinkle bits of honesty into the tale and you still will keep your audience. But strafe them with bullets of the truth and they will run for cover.”
“I’ve seen it happen. I never knew what made them scurry, but I have seen them sprint away.”
“It’s a coping mechanism. If you try to turn their heart too quickly, they’re afraid it will stop beating.”
“Why is it you never worry about that with me? You tell me the facts whether I want to hear it or not.”
“I can tell you because you take step 3.”


Color a page using only three crayons.


*


Fearing Fearlessness

How many times
have I given the credit to night blind fear,
credit due the brave persistent child?

How many times
have I blamed the willing diligent pursuer
when the fault was the backstabbing delay of mistrust?

I resist the onset of freedom.
Fear was my oldest familiar
and I put from my mind that it was my jailer, captor;

Kidnapped me from my cradle
and kept me locked from God’s fine intentions.
Fearlessness sounds debilitating to my crippled ears,

Organs who hear well the disclaimers
and are deaf to the claims.
I am the producer of bile and addicted to dread,

Endorphins wear white hats
and win the day
once this yellow belly is put to bed.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 6



MORE


Sometimes people get more than they can handle. The evidence of this is their insanity or death. God is not the actuary of heaven, managing tragedy the way my loan officer manages my debt load. The victim blamers run to the ‘lack of faith’ accusation. I have to keep my hands tightly on the wheel of life or risk strangling the parrots who chirp outlandish claims but try to make it sound like help. I have to live with what I experience as real and be sober today. I will have to leave the measure of ‘more’ to time out of mind.




Lift your feet and let the chaos pass underneath
*



Two Things That Should Be One

The difference between my will and God’s will
is that God actually likes me all the time,
never looks to punish and would rather
that I don’t settle for less than what is best for me.

The difference between God’s will and my will
Is that left to my own devices
I would run in a perpetual circle and dig a trough.

I would never ask for help
and would refuse if it were offered.
I would take on misguidedness as a mantle
and wear it to my wake.

Often my will and God’s will are miles apart,
but they needn’t be.
God is the president of my fan club;
I just need to start attending the meetings.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 7

ARABIAN DAYS

There are days I feel like Scheherazade and could spin a thousand tales. Other days I feel my brain grab for its satchel and exit my ear. I find it hard to be a hospitable host to all of me, but when I stretch or strain my elbow or knee I think, “oh well, they go out, they go out,” but if my brain runs off and leaves me I am in a serious mess. I try to be a lover of my mind for when I don’t I grow small in my heart. I scent the mental bath water and light the little lights; I sing sweet songs. I wait for response. I smile broadly to hear the quick report of Rimsky-Korsakov.


Don’t transpose your feelings.


*
Out on Your Front Porch


“If you want what we have,” said my sponsor,
“you will have to follow somebody
and lead somebody and do a few other things.”

“I have to follow somebody,
that shouldn’t be too hard,” I mumble.
“In order to follow it helps if you stop looking at the ground,
lift you gaze,” her retort.

I raised my chin until I met her eyes. “Better,” said she.
“I follow you?” I ask.
“Me, yes, if I have what you want,
follow others if I don’t,” she said.

“Okay and lead somebody, how do I do that?” I ask.
“It’s attraction, Sweetie, be attractive,
show your smile and your smarts,

But most of all show that you’re sober,
because that is always your best asset.
And no matter what anybody tells you
about the allure of bad girls,
nobody can resist a good set of assets”

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 8

CONSERVATION OF LOVE


Love does not diminish. It recycles like the rain, ever in transition and transmission. Love is not salvationary or redemptive. Nor do I believe it to be the currency of Godliness. Love is an element like cobalt or gold, it has weight and substance. Love is the coinage of responsibility not a door out of consequences. Love, true love, inspires right action, never cowardice or disrespect. In this strange amelioration, standing in the wings of realism, love is love no longer. Love is the standard I have to bear, not the canopy I stand beneath. In the frozen center, love cannot endure the pressure of misinformation, and melts with friction, floods with irresponsibility. Love, like money, admiration and sex, has its place and must not have expectation of being more than it is. With that said, Love is peerless, to be treasured, protected and shared.


Run away with your heart but bring your mind.

*

Up and Down: Round and Round

Like the wheel on my spinning wheel
I pump up and down on the treadle
and the wheel spins round and round,

The roving twists in my hand and yarn is made.
Really all I do is tap my foot
and gently hold on, pulling occasionally.

It is a small part I play in this production
at least it feels small almost unnecessary,
but with a clear mind I see
that without me it doesn’t get done.

I am essential yet still just a foot-tapper and hanger-on
neither of these is prestigious
yet the whole fabric depends
on my mundane actions.

I take great comfort knowing that allover
there are foot-tappers and hangers-on
keeping safe this way of life

Sometimes keeping it safe just through sheer repetition.
And if you ask, “Is that Unity or Recovery or Service?”
All I can say is “Yes, yes it is.”


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 9

FINE PRINT

I can scrawl the wall with everything I know. I can fill my books, chapter and verse, with pure and honest hope, but let me begin the precision of language and watch. My once open face becomes tight; my free associations peek regularly around each corner. Neatly painted lines are a trap with teeth laid bare. Serrations of careful craft sever my umbilical and God floats off untethered. Truth returns when I am shouting my prayers. Scrupulous observance never advances my sails. I must meet life with an open hand. The devil may not be in the details but be sure to check the fine print.


Open one eye and wink at the possibilities.

*
Stumbling Under the Tenth Step

When I’ve been outside of my mind
it is so hard to tell when I’ve come home again.
The landmarks take on such distortion in memory
that the facts seem bloated or anorexic
as I turn my face from side to side.

Old journals remind me of old journeys
and perhaps there are accurate landmarks mentioned
but how can I know for sure that these too
are not just the ravings of a mind gone mad.

Real or imagined I must take the daily count
and try to keep the score
in favor of the actual.

I don’t always know that I’ve fallen
until I inventory the dirt on my face,
but better that I face the dirt
than live the delusion of a mole.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 10


FEELING TEMPLES


I failed to appreciate the initial onslaught of feelings. I spent much time trying to capture them, lock them away, or in some other way submarine them. This only had the effect of retarding my recovery. I had to reframe my thinking. I had to start with simple calisthenics, embrace and celebrate. As my emotional health began to take shape, I started the foundations for tiny shrines, each with its own theme. Happiness had a party going on until all hours. With grief, there seemed to be a constant internment in progress, body or no. Fear showed an IMAX film of the realities of life on earth, and curiosity had an endless library plus a DSL line. Making myself a willing and frequent visitor to these contrasting places created in me wholeness and peace. Never again do I have to trudge the two dimensional desert of my monochromatic former life.


Write love letters with your favorite pen.

*
The Key You See


The key you see is letting you accept me.
Oh, how I hide from that, run from that, flee from that.
I must be in control of what you think of me.

I curtain off the view of me
I don’t wish to share with you.
Add to that the unusual choices of what I hide.

I will strip down with all the lights blazing
long before I would let you see me drop the ball,
be confused, misunderstand.

What I truly fail to realize is that in the process
of trying to hide my faux pas and fumbles;
what I show you is my controlling ass.

Backside bare I moon you with my freak show
trying to hide my humanity.
Your compassion and tolerant waiting for me to calm down
and open my eyes is the key I fail to see about you.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 11


BIRDS & BEES


Birds and bees can get me drunk. I have to watch the amount of envy which pours through me as I watch their wondrous bliss. When others make a bee-line to the hive, I must head to a meeting and save myself despair if my spiritual condition is not sound. When other couples are weaving their nests, I have to be careful not to weave my way back to the bar. The mating dance is so sweet and seductive; I have to make sure I don’t end up doing the two step. For as much as I hate to admit it, if steps one and twelve where enough to keep me sober, the rest would not have needed to be written.


Pad barefoot through intention.

*

Neither Frog nor Fish

I was falling
and my Higher Power caught me
in a net called AA,
all of which was a pretty neat trick,

But the strangest consequence of this
is now I somehow think it shouldn’t be possible
for me to drown.

Defying gravity 24 hours at a time
doesn’t make me aquatic
or even amphibious for that matter.

I still have all the corollary restrictions
of anyone who is me.
I still need sleep and water,
food and warmth just like a mere mortal.

How silly I am.
I dodge a bullet
and suddenly I think I am waterproof.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 12


WHIP


I have been to the meeting where they play 'whip', the meeting where the members are gotten in line. The tempo increases constantly in an attempt to flick each other off into the land of shame and slips and less-than. This game is invisible to the participants, though the stress on their bodies is surely felt. Spectators often misunderstand the meaning of the activity and wrongly interpret it as strength training and endurance building. I think of it as a backward step, throwing me to my initial desire for a drink; living in other peoples skewed lines sent me running for a bottle. These same lines, placed around me in sobriety, will measure me up for a box.



Turn your plants and your mind so every aspect has an opportunity to get some sun.

*


Who to Ask

“You ask good questions
and you ask the right people,” said my sponsor.

“I ask questions because I need answers,” my reply.
“Do you know how many people need answers
and never ask?” she quipped.

“I ask my friends, no stroke of genius there,” I continue.
“You ask your playmates,
you ask the people you trust enough to have fun with.

You don’t realize how clever that is.
You know lots of folks who work hard
and you could ask your questions of these

But instead you save them for those diligent ones
who still know how to play and that, Sweetie Pie
is proof that you are no dummy.”



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 13



WILLING PIECRUST


I lay the crust of my will over the pie plate of God’s will for me. I must have the willingness to trim off the excesses. I hesitate; I worked hard to roll it out. I know from past experience, when hot issues come up, these tags and hangings-on burn and drop sometimes ruining the flavor and appearance of the whole. It is easier to cut loose the things outside God-given intent. I get the pie in its entirety when I crimp and bend to the shape of my life.




Hope is free, so spread it around.
*




Chickens and Eggs

Who is more sober
the early riser or the long-timer?
How do we get here and what does it mean.

It all starts with a day, which is good
because this is more than we had hoped for,
sometimes more than we could do.

Then it moved into an ever escalating game
of can you beat this, each day an improvement
over what had been accomplished the day before.

For years the standard bearer is the pain or relief
of the very first in this string,
orbs of 24, yet here stands the question,

“Is the essence the last pearl you touch
or the total of the strand, which makes it real?”
I don’t know for sure.

Sobriety is like light;
is light made up of waves or is it made up of particles
and the answer is invariably yes, for it is.

And what you need and how you look at it
seems to make the determination,
scientific method or no

The watched is affected by the watcher and vice versa.
The end is a day round and imperfect as any
and what is strung between the beginning and the end
is what you’ve made of it.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 14



THE PLAYGROUND

Getting my ass kicked in the playground of my mind was once a daily event. Now, it is a far off memory. I absent myself from the jungle gym the same way I absent myself from bars---places set with traps and schemes I am no longer attracted to. Bullies and ego trips can’t draw me toward the fence. Dares and double-dares are such ancient devices I can’t even find the trigger they used to pull. Trouble doesn’t know my new name, my sober name; I don’t answer to the old one. I hate to admit the isolation of my school yard days, but no one I knew back then will keep me on the road to the future. So, I leave the ball in their court and wish them well.



Expectations are lovely as long as you leave off the outcomes.

*


Not Fur but Fin

You can’t delay the river,
I’ve tried, all it does is distort.
I block the flow and swamp ensues,
mighty oaks waist deep in water.

The current is strong
and I fear being swept away,
not realizing I was born to swim.

Dreading the swim back for spawn
I try to stay too close to my origins,
never make it to open water,
never to live the life I was intended for.

I’ve heard it said,
“Don’t push the river it flows by itself,”
but I can’t stall it either.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 15

TRAP DOOR


The trap door of my mind opens occasionally and I find myself acting out things better left to conversation. When I leave too many things unsaid, the pressure builds and the door opens. My thoughts connect with my body minus the benefit of my brain, not to mention the brain of my sponsor. I can ill afford the consequences of these open door exhibitions and I am obligated to spend much time scrambling up the hills my outlandishness slid down. Thinking, speaking and contemplating, the prerequisites of action, must be done frequently or my mind’s sink, piled with my dirty dishes, will flood the counter top, then leave dishes crashing to the floor. Even if I can’t keep everything caught up, at least I can leave things soaking. I can start notes or little chats so I am not weighting the latch. I can prevent the coupling of impulse and exploit. All I have to do is stick out my tongue.


Release your emotions from captivity.

*


Like an Elf Working in an Empty Tree

The chairs in the loft are empty,
but I still hear the choir sing.
The bottle though it’s empty,
still sometimes calls my name.

Though front pocket is empty
and there is rolled up empty sleeve,
still the nicotine haunts my dreams.

On this empty road I travel,
I still long for company.
The stillness is not all that’s empty,
but I run to fill that spot.

Chaos is like a tapeworm
it eats me from the inside,
but in the meantime I still believe it’s filling me.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 16



NAPPING


Too often, I have lifted the edge of the lawn in an attempt to join the worms for a bit of a dirt nap. Or I crawled into a self-constructed cave to bear my feelings and hibernate from life. The times I sprint with the deer, jumping the fences in hopes of escaping the wolves, these are all the times when I forget who I am. I forget to ask direction, fail to make a meeting. Seeing those of my ilk puts my feet on the ground, focuses my perspective on just what sort of creature I am. I can’t always follow my instincts when I don’t know who I am. I can’t see myself until I stand next to you.



Relax one toe at a time.


*
In Training

Like a faithful dog that was hard to train,
patience is a thing hoped for
yet peevish during the breaking in.
Stanch companionability is hard won,
but worth the cost of acquisition.

And what is the price I truly paid in the end;
whatever I gave in the pursuit of patience
was a cheap babysitter
and kept me from far worse reformation.

For what would I do in this late day and age
as a tempest torn toddler,
no bottle to sooth my woes and bothers.

Strictly speaking this is a world ill suited
to the edgy intolerant masses
and only seems to fit those who can mark time and bend.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 17


LUCK

Luck, transposed for gratitude, makes a mockery of grief and loss. If you are lucky, what does that make me? The forgotten? The orphan of fate? If what I lost and what it cost me is just a lack of fortune, then why do right? What is sea level? I may deserve all the sweetness in the world but what explains the pain? I’ve heard that life’s not fair and laughed at the underestimation of the claim. If pain is the touchstone of growth and you are lucky and I’m hurt, does that make you short? And what is the point of growing tall?


Blow kisses to stars which look familiar.

*
Ground Floor


Step 10 is the place where the doors slide open
and I discover I am out of the basement.
I have to pay close attention to where my feet are;
it is so easy to stumble here in the light of day.

Obvious limitations and universally accepted interpretations
are pried from installation and put on trial.
Never is it acceptable to allow my alcoholic thinking
to make decisions for my sober life.

The road to my door must be kept clear
so I can get out to do my part
and so God can come home to me.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 18



CLAW MARKS


There is a brackish river whose current changes direction twice a day. Its bed is well washed on every side. It begs the question: which way is downhill? There are times I struggle uphill in both directions. There are times I slip from every slope. What was up is often down. Judgment of topography requires distance. Scaling the surface takes tenacity. I plan on leaving my mark as I go, life’s residue staining my fingertips.


Design caution signs for your emotions.
*


What I Take from Laban’s House


If I have the audacity to have a problem
I must provide the instantaneous solution
or be the cause of world-wide panic.
Additionally it is the height of rudeness
to have open-ended dilemma.

It makes the gods uncomfortable,
makes them shift in their seats
and wish me away.

I prevent banishment
by either being problem free
or solution-full

When the answers are not to their liking
I exile myself saving them the inconvenience
and me the embarrassment.

It is never good to implode the household deities,
you never know when you might need one
for historic perspective or a door stop.




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

[Loren_Q]

Yesterday I had a run-in with someone, someone who knows exactly how to get to me. In the past, run-ins with this person made me want to drink (I never did though). Full disclosure: I had in the past done a grave disservice to this person; I did make my amends but it was too little, too late, they have opted to not forgive.

Yesterday was different, as it started getting heated I did a personal inventory and saw my part in the escalation, maybe for the first time.

Because of that I was able to extricate myself intact, no desire to drink, no desire to argue, just sadness that this happens. I was grateful as well.

I apologized for my part, wished them well and said goodbye.

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 19



DROWNING NAKED


Bare and exposed, I laid myself on the altar of my home group. With AA as my only Source, I emptied the contents of my soul and bore the mantle of overexposure. But vultures lurked in many rooms. I was safely guided, by persons of my gender, to the more secluded and effective place of transmission. I thrust myself into the arms and mind of my sponsor. She escorted me up the steps with the door closed and taught me how and when it could be prudently opened. AA is a power greater than me. So is the ocean. Precaution needs to be taken when wading in. Care must be exercised as to how much to bare.


Wrap your intentions in wool to keep them warm and in gold to keep them untarnished.
*



Bound


The reason the sleeves of my disease
wrap around and tie in the back
is so that I will struggle with change.

Alcoholism is my straightjacket
and my goal is that ‘loose garment life’
I’ve heard so much about.

The sweat I work up
from railing against my confining existence
causes petulance, frothing and enervation,

Defeat is the landing on which I collapse,
acceptance a flight of steps away.
My ailment leads me to believe
I have nothing to hold onto as I adjust.

Though this isn’t true,
the fact remains that this is still
a process of letting go.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 20


RANK


I took an area level service position and my sponsor laughed herself off her chair.
“What is your motivation for this?” she asked.
“I want to move up through the service structure,” my reply.
“Are you trying to make rank?”
“Problem with that?" I ask.
“Ever heard of self-fulfilling prophecy? You will become what you desire. You will become rank and you will stink. The triangle is inverted to help you clean up your act. Don’t get washed away in a tide of ego.”
I put down my swim fins and removed my epaulets.



Listen intently enough to hear the music of the planets spinning in your mind.
*




Bummed
I accept change
like coins slipped into a cup
that sits beside me on the curb.
Never did it occur to me
that I look in need of pity
or alms from strangers;
Which is to say
I don’t accept much these days,
yet I do not fight it either.
I keep my head down
when I can no longer fend off the inevitable.
I may not win control or compliance,
Might not remain strong enough to fight another day,
but this too is a blessing somehow.
A laying down of arms.
Money in my pocket
makes the world a funny place to endure
when I’m living in the tiny room in my head.
What good news it would be
if I learned to throw the windows open
and let the day take me.
This time it’s God
that needs to wear the ear muffs
and lead me through the coldness of change.
On my own I just walk farther
down the blind alleys
and fold myself on this sidewalk in exhaustion.
I don’t like the tea or the sympathy,
but I don’t think I would mind if God took me in.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 21



SOLIDITY


Apprehension stands in the archeological site that is my life…listening. Listening for the rumble of a cement truck to come and help solidify the shifting and tenuous nature of my existence. A wet and sloppy solution. A solution to be raked and smoothed, covered and cured. Something to build a monument on or a place to park my car. The nearby grass looks lush and green but I dare not leave apprehension alone or it spreads. I stand with it on bad days and against it on good ones. I pray for the mixer to arrive or at least the gravel spreader. I need to fill this hole so it can be a life and stop being a grave.


When your emotions are at low tide, explore the shoreline for shells and trinkets.
*


More Better


When I take a break from my idyllic life,
trading up to paradise,
I balk at thoughts of returning
to the simply marvelous
day to day I have worked so hard to attain.

Self accusation floods under the door,
but I whimilate it with fact.
My reluctance to turn my back on a good thing
is an asset which many days keeps me sober.

I greedily seize every improvement
and hold on for dear life.
If reflections of the past
even held a glimmer for me I might worry;

I turn from all but the highest good.
I don’t regret the past
but I shall never return to it.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 22

WHAMMO



I have been hopping on one foot with a ball of hope shoved under one arm and a ball of hysteria under the other. I wish I could tell from the outside of the ball which is the hope. I worry I will put down the wrong one, so I hold on to both. My life is sorely limited by the baggage, and I fear I am losing life with every hop. A lack of information is my problem. I don’t adequately know the properties of either and suspect my every interpretation. Finally, I stand before my sponsor to ask the question of my life.
“That’s easy, Honey. Hope is the one that bounces back,” is all she has to say.


Give yourself credit in a currency that enriches your life.
*


Halloween


“Why does self-centered fear wear a costume
that looks so much like ‘other people’s opinion’?”
I asked my sponsor.

“For the same reason
that booze masquerades as ‘a good time.’
How would you ever fall into a pit
which used no pretense?

Naked ambition attracts far fewer devotees than addicts of
‘must make Mama and Daddy proud’
or the ‘doing better for my kids’ crowd.”

“Ambition is not all together bad!” I crow.
“Neither is fear in its proper scale,
but fear cloaks itself to seize more than its share of your life,
just like any parasite.

So take your spring tonic like a good kid
and keep the worms at bay.”


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 23



CRUMPLED PETALS IN MY POCKET


I can’t bring back the bloom. Cohesion, lost in ripeness, is left only to memory. I carry home the parts, folded, petite, fragrant bedding for my wistful desires. I put these colored remnants into a jar of salt. I make an aromatic rub for the sweetest of wounds. Transforming the parts to useful duty doesn’t restore the flower. It doesn’t pay tribute to the past; it is survival. I have a mind filled with roses but I must make hay. Today, I live. Today, the rose is dead, its pieces in my pocket. I don’t die with the blossom, though my head blows in the wind. The rose runs its course. I run mine.


Line your clouds with anything you like.
*




Coming Home to Work


I have arrived home to a beehive;
everyone industrious,
everyone filled with purpose,
everything buzzing right along.

My response to this of course is anger.
I have a sting and I want to use it.
I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.

The living world is now opened to me,
but my destination had been death for so long
that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.

I divide my time between gratitude and rage.
I want to accuse myself, rescue myself,
then I remember everyone in this place too
has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.


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

[Degotoga]

With the help of a lot of people that loved me when I wasn't loveable, kicked my ass when I was being stubborn and refused to budge, and kept my head above water when heartbreaking and seemingly unsurmountable things came my way, I have managed to keep stacking together one day at a time. Today is a milestone for me that I never would have reached on my own - 20 years. It doesn't seem possible because I can vividly remember things that happened long before this journey began, and plenty of not so fun times in the beginning of this journey when I went kicking and clawing the whole way. Rarely has it been easy, but it's always been worth it. I hope I never forget the events that were the kick in the seat of the pants that was necessary to motivate me to change. I'm as grateful as I know how to be for the people and life lessons that have brought me to where I am today. My life is truly blessed.

I hope I never forget where I've been or where I'm headed, and I pray I will always be humble enough to offer my hand and help to anyone that reaches out to me.

[LeftWriteFemme]

http://your.caerphilly.gov.uk/bmi/sites/your.caerphilly.gov.uk.bmi/files/Cake20%20lg.jpg

Happy Twentieth Anniversary!!!

Thanks for sharing the journey!

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 24



ESCAPING THROUGH THE CEILING


Up and away is my motto; upwardly mobile is my goal. If I can flee without leaving a track, I’m clean. No heart-wrenching walk down the aisle or the lane. No dust on my shoes. No possibility of stumbling. Grace at all cost. Empowerment through elevation. If I must leave my human plane to attain this, so be it. Give up my natural rights, such is life. But, yet, if I lose my bonds to earth what did the leaving gain me? I arise to appear better; as a result, I appear not at all.


Hold your hand then touch your face.

*



Imperturbable


Perfectionism is a cover,
a blanket of lead;
hard to move and rich with poison.

What it tries to hide
is my unwillingness to struggle and strive.
It’s not a fear of failure,
but the horror of success after a long hot pursuit.

If I can stall on the intricacies of the first move
there is no further movement.
If I can fail before I begin
there is no sweat, no stain, no stink.

Catastrophe is no bother,
but skinned knees are my undoing.
Winning is not so important to me;
my unfortunate goal is to look untroubled.



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

[Daktari]

With the help of a lot of people that loved me when I wasn't loveable, kicked my ass when I was being stubborn and refused to budge, and kept my head above water when heartbreaking and seemingly unsurmountable things came my way, I have managed to keep stacking together one day at a time. Today is a milestone for me that I never would have reached on my own - 20 years. It doesn't seem possible because I can vividly remember things that happened long before this journey began, and plenty of not so fun times in the beginning of this journey when I went kicking and clawing the whole way. Rarely has it been easy, but it's always been worth it. I hope I never forget the events that were the kick in the seat of the pants that was necessary to motivate me to change. I'm as grateful as I know how to be for the people and life lessons that have brought me to where I am today. My life is truly blessed.

I hope I never forget where I've been or where I'm headed, and I pray I will always be humble enough to offer my hand and help to anyone that reaches out to me.


Amazin' stuff Degotoga, 'grats mate! :tea:

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 25



FEEDING THE MONSTER



Who will feed the monster once they’ve made her? Her hunger burns in her like a beacon. Should I let her starve? Should I put her on rations of old crusts and tepid water? Rebuke her as if she were her own idea? Possibly bind her hands and cover her eyes? Stand her in line with the good girls and fit her in? Turn her visage from her desire and tell her to forget? Hold her hand and tell her that’s enough? When I stand in the face of her yawning hunger, what do I say?
“It’s for your own good.”
Well, that’s what ‘They’ said, too.


Round the corners and square your shoulders.

*


Blinded


Alcoholism hits me like a kind of blindness.
I stagger through the living room
cursing anyone who changes familiar placement
or published timetables.

Like every aspect of this disease
shocked sightlessness is mine to deal with.
I must pick up the white cane,
procure the Seeing Eye pup,
learn to read clustered Braille.

When my vision clears
in these well worked spaces I am relieved
but I must accept that when I walk into a new room
more often then not I will be blind again
and must pick up my walking stick once more.




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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 26



HOW THINGS SEEM


Not everyone who pushes me down is my enemy and not everyone who pulls me up is my friend. I have been seduced by the closeness of people who used me as their shield. When I have been held in the place of honor, the point man of life, I forgot that made me the replacement target for the one who stood behind me. I had been offended as I was thrown to the ground. The hands that shoved me, I saw as my rejecters. I was spared the tragedy and peril of the thing that flew by my ear thanks only to the grace of a thrust in the right direction. Accurate appraisal is my weakness. Seeing things for what they are is hard. Things are rarely how they seem.


Grow tall with your grain and the years will grow around you.

*


Would You Rather a Lamp?

I am a girl filled with expectations.
Like a ginger jar filled, stuffed caulker block full,
though the filling is the part which is unpredictable;

It could be match books, or seashells,
acorns or all those pretty capsules.
This makes me erratic and sometimes volatile.

Are you strong enough or far too sane
to stay and help me sort the contents?
It’s lonely work without a witness or a spotter.

I rather be alone than with you reluctantly,
so please try to shuck that husk and remain.
Yes, I am sometimes capricious, but I try never to be cruel.

I know sometimes you convince yourself
that leaving me to my own devices is the wisest of courses,
but don’t be fooled;

You disappear due to your weakness not strength
and the worst part about the price of abandonment
is that everyone has to pay it.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 27



SERVICE AND SACRIFICE


The difference between life and death in my recovery is the equal difference between service and sacrifice. If I offer you what is in my hand, fine. If I also give you my fingertips, I am lost. Service lightens the load in my heart; sacrifice removes my tools for living. When I go into debt for your existence, the cheer and optimism is sucked from my awareness. My eyes go dead and soon I follow. The cingulotomy of obligation crucifies my future and murders true hope and love. Service feeds my heart and yours. Renovating makes space. It builds the muscles for joy and contentment, pumping and refilling my plate with spirituality.



Wriggle your toes and flex your mind.
*



Perkiomenville

Being actually alive does not feel as good as I imagined
the relief of not being dead would feel
therefore I have anxiety and dread,
or is it disappointment.

I feel like a failure when I am in the process of trying
I want to throw the pieces in the air and run.
Does this mean I’m weak
or does it mean I am frightened?

Is there some heavenly host of other reasons
why my crêpe paper soul twists and turns
in the breeze of the marketplace?

Some part of me was auctioned off
and its removal left a psychic scar
that even equanimity cannot ease.

I am all things wonderful and yet there is this flaw,
this toe tied thread which holds me back,
holds me down with painful accurate precision.

I look for the knife with which to cut it
all the while wondering if this will turn it into
a toe tag or a price tag.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 28



CHAPTER AND VERSE


I remember being trained and rehearsed for finding the words which would release my soul from bondage. The scrupulous concern for detail pointed me to heaven. And yet I drank. Inside these rooms the path is wide, judgment is suspended and I have the right to be wrong. The penalties for error can be great but the privilege and risk are mine. As in all things, the extremists come. They have come to this place, too. Thumpers hound and belittle, threaten and cajole. They tell page numbers like punch lines and narrow the field at every opportunity. I can’t stay sober sitting on my old stool and I can’t maintain this desire by their chapter and their verse.


Notes are numbers, so count out your time and sing your song.

*

Jane Street

The space between wanting to live
and not wanting to hurt
is the alley in which I live.
This lane is not as narrow as you might think,

In some places there is room for parking on one side.
Since I reside here more often than not
I have filled it with many of the appliances,
which allow me to pretend at life.

It doesn’t afford a truly clean or cheerful locale,
but there are laughs, sometimes flowers in the spring.
Finding my way out of this is tricky.

When unlocked I find these are backdoors to commerce
and though better than being sold wholesale,
retail is not what I was hoping to find
as I wrest myself from a confined existence.

I have heard of those who
drive through plate glass ignoring the structure.
I think this is less workable from the back.

What is left when I can’t bully or climb?
I guess I will have to throw my hands up and pray.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 29


WHEN A SNAPPER CROSSES THE ROAD


What should I do? I see the soggy green/gray lump creeping the macadam too slow to survive for long. The surge in me, to aim and end the duckling eater's life, is a short-lived but palpable surge. My Disney style justice is dismissed but heard from nonetheless. Shall I pull over and assist? This turtle is as ill equipped for this stretch of road as I am ill equipped to aid in its conveyance. Should I reach with fingers or toes to something I know can extend its neck and sever me from parts I hold dear? The ever-present missionary in me has spoken and is silenced. In fact, what I can do is slow down and give wide berth. I know this creature is a danger, but never more so than me.


Plot your graph and measure your curve.
*


Terry Bradshaw

When someone wants to take the easy way out
I condemn them for wanting ease
and fail to register that they want out.
I hear a whine when in fact it’s a cry.

A challenge is rarely passed up by the able bodied,
but must be foregone by the injured.
Carried from the field is no personal victory,
not a goal for sure.

When I would rather watch than play
I need to check for wounds not inflict them.
It is not natural for me to sit in the stands,
but accusation is never the way to get me on the field.

Suit up when I’m whole and hide when I’m not.
Absence is a fallback position for the fallen
I have to help myself to get back up.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

April 30



PINK CLOUD

When the pink cloud lands in my valley, my task is to walk. The pleasure of its presence can never outweigh the practice this cloud affords me. I walk in a haze of cherry blossom lightness; the future is a blur I do not fear. Forward motion seeds my inertia; my gyroscope is set. When dark clouds gather and the way is overshadowed, I will keep on. When the test begins and I must proceed in the obscurity of night, the lively steps of pink-cloud days will cheer and empower me. I can embed my future with right action and bank the confidence I feel today, saving it for the rain swept days that come to everyone. Progress is positive even when made in bliss.


Get a cozy blanket for the times when the answers don’t come.
*


Reguess

When in my sarcasm
I suggested that you ‘guess again’,
I realized that you were in fact guessing,
guessing about everything,

Guessing in order to create a process of elimination,
a tool on which I now recognize you entirely depend.
Guessing as a way of life is a tragedy.

I’m not saying that trying to know every last thing in the world
is an acceptable alternate goal, but to reach an adult age
and not even be able to work your way up to a possible hunch
is scary, scarier than even my sarcasm,

Which at this moment seems interminable,
but I’m sure you guessed that.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 1

HOLD CARD



My bottom pulled my hold card to the table top. I turned it over and found I have a bit of value. Each time I turned over my will, my value increased. After many spins, the face cards appear; I’m the Jack, the Queen, the King. I revel in the time and practice it has taken to get here. I play my hand and take my chances. I have been privileged to pair with wonderful sober partners who turn themselves over and transform before my eyes. The years raise the ante and I play close to my chest. The stakes are high and if I turn in the wrong direction, I can be the Joker once again.


Smell your meals before you eat them.
*
Leap Day

When winter is almost at an end it becomes beautiful;
a theoretical thing, which though it may hurt you,
can not hurt you for long,
therefore is safely appreciated by mere mortals.
You don't have to beg for God's own protection,


Time has become a friend and winter only a show.
I will soon wake from this chilling fright,
will in fact thaw from it in short order
and needn’t fret though chilblains
still catch at me now and then.

I can stand at the window
admiring frost and ice formed lace;
intricate patterns whose beauty will soon be lost to me,

Put away in favor of crocus and daffodil.
The terrible loveliness of soon to pass trauma
is not lost on my hyper-vigilance
I grasp it, I just can’t seem to let it rest.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 2



THE MEAL


Home cooking is the key. I want to order in, have my life delivered to the door. The takeout menus entice me. From three courses on china to burgers handed through sliding windows, it all sounds good and I request all for take home. But this is not the way. I must light the flame and chop the veg. I can’t have a life prepared by others. I can share recipes and suggestions; this is help not displacement. I can stand and cook with others and together make the feast. I cannot sit and wait to be served. I stand at the range while the sauce simmers and it comes clear; I am my own meal.


Nothingness won’t necessarily consume you but it does block the view.


*
TWC


I wake early and watch the lazy rain
fall in slow fat random drops.
I view it with silent awe,
only part of my recently somnolent mind bewildered.

Dawn advances toward me and I register a new concept:
snow, it is snow; the sky had been,
too dark to allow me to see the white,
all I could comprehend was the fall.

The lighter the sky becomes
the more the precipitation behaves like snowfall.
I muse this to my sponsor and she laughed,
“Well, we all misname things in the dark,
Sweetie, lighten up and give yourself a break.”




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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 3

REALLY RAINING



“Why do people ask if someone is really sober?”
“They’re checking for the winners, I guess,” responded my sponsor.
“But what does that mean?”
“Well, when the clouds roll in and the next thing you know it’s really raining, you can clearly discern the difference between that and just a shower. The commitment of water saturates the atmosphere and the rain is the undeniable certainty. That is what people are looking for and they ask to discover if the person even comprehends the concept.”
“What do they do if the person is really sober?”
“Stand next to them and soak it all in.”


Have double paned windows to insulate you from cosmic rays or constant criticism.
*



With and Without


With my sponsor-
Without my drinking buddies

With my Big Book-
Without my contrived dogma

With my home group-
Without my dysfunctional family

With my step work-
Without my mental masturbation

With my sobriety-
Without my insanity

With all this I can live-
Without all that



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 4

DESSERT

I have to be my own appetizer; I have to be the thing that entices and intrigues me. I must be the roughage, the salad full of color and variety. The entree must be me, as well. The things that sustain me, the meat of my life, I have to supply and swallow down. I can be all this. I run to the sweetness of others but this cannot be my source of sustenance. The greater part of me needs to derive from me. I can set the table and fill it with the fullness of who I am. I am enough and others are dessert. Twinkies will never be sufficient. They can only be a treat.


Make sure your work area is well ventilated.
*
Yield Don’t Stop


If I let amazement stop my progress
I will become landlocked instead of becoming free.
Picture wagon wheels planted in Kansas
when the destination had been California.

Yes, the plains are great,
but if that was not my aim it is a far cry from heaven.
Arriving at any haven is tempting;
when it crosses to captivating then to captivation,
here is where the problem lay.

Steps six and seven changed me and this is good.
If I allow this to halt me this is disaster.
If the wheels fall off the wagon I walk.
If I grow too tired to walk I pant with my friends
and we carry each other, we don’t stop.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 5

TRANSITIONS


During the months of winter, the trees stand tall and leafless---static in their appearance, frozen in direction. The insurgence of spring brings to life the truth. The buds and flowers show the draw of their owners---the pull of life from the earth and sky. Other trees have begun to restore the gifts so graciously given. These leafless giants open themselves as home and sustenance to the surrounding community---returning favors and flavors, coming to terms with wholeness. Celebrations of all I have call for me to give it all back, even during the time when we all look the same.


Always step out of the spotlight before it burns you.
*




Pinocchio as a Girl



I should be painting today
instead of reframing the future,
an unnecessary and ephemeral job at best.
Kind of like lassoing an unborn colt,
I try to put a rope around something that cannot get away.

Outcome hasn’t much to do with foregone conclusion
and wouldn’t I be better mixing colors and wetting brushes
than cutting slices from a pie in the sky?

But tomorrow seems more spacious than this crowded present
and I con myself into believing this is a harmless trip to the fair.
I lose my light, my thought, my sight with these thieving sojourns;
leaving me to creak around because all that is left is wood.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 6

STREET SIGNS

Hanging out on the corner of Disillusion Boulevard and Grief Road, then returning to that special spot on Despair Avenue, was my daily routine. I made the circle and never looked far afield. Widening my circuit allowed me to find Anticipation Place and Hopeful Terrace. I pushed my search and found roads, whose existence I never fathomed, intersecting, creating areas of intrigue. Optimism Court interfacing with Realization Way is the fairest of my finds, but many a fine street corner has me lurking, catching stray sunshine and encouragement. I make my home wherever the hospitality is available and return less often to the dark and stifling places of the past. Happiness is where you find it. Just make sure to read the signs.


Exponential growth is a little thing that affects you in a big way.
*
A Good Ship

Recently my life has taken on a surreal quality.
I stand in front of myself
as if I were a business to be run
or a project to be undertaken.

The intensity, uncertainty and drama
seem to be on the wane.
There are choices to be made
and outcomes to be determined.

This is all work and numbers,
nothing at risk below the skin.
My heart is secure, true love its protector,
faith its inborn light.

I am docked in safety harbor;
the waves may rock me,
but my anchor holds me fast.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 7

K-TURNS


I do not believe in a universe that makes complete sense. I often find myself trapped because the things I pull into no longer feel firm. I attempt K-turns in alleys far too narrow for the maneuver. I can’t back myself through the passages I plunged into willingly. My faith doesn’t compute in reverse and I find this disconcerting. I may walk into the face of fire but find it impossible to turn my back on the flames. Today, a one-way faith is fine as long as I am moving forward.


Allow talents to unfold like spring leaves.
*


The Little Black Dress


The holes in my pockets cause me to feel naked.
Though it is an inside pocket
and no one can see I still feel exposed,

My thinking changed and for that matter chained,
one link looped through the next.
I start with a hole in my pocket
so I know I can’t stay in this dress all day.

I know I will need the storage later as time wears on
but I can’t change now
and I don’t want to waste time putting on my tights.

My legs are cold. I fly from room to room.
I gather my keys, but forget my phone.
I am bare legged and unreachable,
overexposed due to a hole in my pocket.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 8

THE SHINY THING
The starling stands with the candy wrapper in its beak; the cellophane flexes in the breeze. Here is my life. I have the shiny thing in my possession. What do I do? Do I give up my intended tasks to attempt dominance or control of the shiny thing? Do I release this thing of intrigue and beauty? I am drawn to the shimmer and sparkle but shudder at the price. The world is filled with shiny things. I can enjoy them but leave them where they lay.


Play the tune but change the lyrics.

*
More Than a Fedora

I have no explanations only expletives,
I wish I had something to say
that you wished to hear,
but that is not current events;

Foul humored broadcasts are what fill the air this day.
Bad temper is tempting,
but I can no longer be satisfied in this way
nor is this a performance that you care to witness.

I will play FCC to my ruminations
curtailing this colorful darkness for my benefit
and the clearing of the air.

I have never shied from dramatic vocabulary
and I do not now,
but throwing out words is waste
and I am learning to conserve.

I don’t have to leak my power
I can cover my head
and close my mouth.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 9



ROLES


“You don’t have to give up playing God because it was a bad thing to do," said my sponsor in her most gentle voice. “You have to give it up because it doesn’t work. In a world seemingly spinning out of control, you, brave child, stepped up to the plate and took a swing. That is heroic, not demonic, but impractical nevertheless. You have to be your own full-time job even when it feels like there are other jobs left unfilled. You don’t have to run around finding the feet that fit those empty shoes, either. Maybe those empty shoes are just bait for a bad trap. Keep on your journey and I think you will come to a place where the work is being accomplished by a surprising cast of characters. You will be free to stick to the role ahead of you.”


Taste your thoughts carefully and spit out the rancid ones.
*

Out Standing in My Field

Trying to remove expectations is like trying to unseed a field;
it is damn near impossible until something crops up,
though when it does I must act swiftly lest things take root.

Tedious as it is weeding the fields
of unreasonable expectancy saves me from
so much frustration later on.

I don’t recognize it
but expectations are like little dictators forever ruling me,
leaving no room for God or direction,
not to mention flexibility or change.

Tap roots dive for the vein
and my life depends on fleet elimination of unsuitable desire.
I can want. I can strive.
I can not leave expectations to grow in my garden.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 10

THE 24 HOUR GOD

Matching a loving God to the horrors of my past has proved impossible for me. Projecting a connection to an all-powerful God of the ever-foreshortening future seems implausible. In today, I see a nurturing God. Not an all purpose God, not a God who serves all. In my life, there is a God I trust today. Each morning, when I wake, it is a pleasant surprise to find a God. Not an expansive God, not a God to fit the continuum, but a nice neat God who fits right in this 24.


Lift your fingers to your scars and feel the gratitude.

*
Box-a-week Tao


I am going through so many changes
surrounding the cleaning out and getting rid of process.
The flat sided panic that I experience
while even attempting the smallest disposal seems impossible.

I would deny it if I didn't have the repetition
of this experiment to prove it as fact.
I have now moved into the part of the illness
where I compulsively clean the things that I have emptied
in order to avoid facing the next step, the next box, the next mess.

This is a two part trap:
Part 1. If cleaning can absorb all the time
I will not be able to do anything else.

Part 2. If I can't keep it clean enough
then I have an excuse to give up
and not empty the next space.

I am trying to keep moving without being mean to myself.
Because mean is worse than mess.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 11



ON-COMING

Anticipation of the approaching traffic consumes. The tiny spec grows and develops into the arriving vehicle. 50 miles per and the rapid succession of the coming and those leaving eats quickly at my heart. The pain seers me. Why are these who travel from the direction of my destination passing me by? For miles and miles, they appear to be greeters. The breeze created by their passing chaps my face and I question my goals. How can so many abandon my objective? But flee it they do. My hunger does not diminish and I press on. Of course if we all went this way, we might tip the globe. Maybe that’s what they fear.


Smile with your eyes, laugh with your hands, rest your heart, ease your mind.

*


Be That Girl

I have tried to protect the investment I made in the past
by selling the soul of my future.
I arrived self-possessed, a winning girl,
but I slid the self from the scene leaving me simply possessed.

I gained everything then lost it a piece at a time
starting with the parts nearest my heart.
I must draw the shards together once more
and mend this lovely crystal.

The art of living is insured by my action
not by grasping at slivers in terror
of what slips from my fingers.

I am what I have inviolate
and all else comes to fruition when I am pleased;
when I am myself.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 12



MY SOBER HEART

The heart I have today is not the heart I have had all my life. Cells age and are replaced. I slough off what I can no longer use and rejuvenate with fresh layers. My sobriety is the same. Past step work is revamped and approached in innovative ways. Yesterday's prayers are replaced with today’s; today’s meditations will be dispelled by tomorrow’s. The function remains the same but it is constructed with brand new work. Service I render is always for my sobriety but I work to strengthen various quadrants. My heart is not as young as it used to be and vigorous action remakes it new each day. I rebuild my sober heart continually because forever and today I have the mind of an alcoholic.


Time your thinking so it can fire your mind.



*
No Stone Left Behind


An anchor attaches at the lower extremities stabilizing me,
an albatross is the thing weighing me down from the top,
it tips me, throws me to the ground.

I must remember to choose ferrous instruments
over long necked birds.
Often it’s not the amount of drag, but where it’s affixed.

There are so many variables,
so much to think through, yet I often react
and pick up what seems as harmless as a flock of sea gulls

And turns out to be worse than an iron maiden.
Leaving not tern unstoned is bad,
but do I really have the time to do it the other way around?


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 13



QUEEN’S COUNTENANCE


I know the 7 P’s of preparation. I set the table for those I know. The unexpected arrive clothed in time and tradition. They seat themselves at the table with the naked. They become mute. We prattle and pose, rarely glimpsing the goals sitting at the unset seats. What we need to become is far from what we are. I can not even call it other. It is within when we make room and ether when we won’t. I can wait and try but the juice is deep with the pulp. I get myself in line for the future and wait for the clothes offered by my guests. I sit the emperor and rise the queen.


Hear the sweetness in your own voice; taste the salt in your own tears.
*

Madame Alexander


I am, too naïve;
if you show me kindness I will believe you,
follow you, obey you, so, I have rules.

These rules do not protect me,
but they do make a box for me to seal myself inside.
Where I will ship myself, stack myself, hide myself,
well, that I do not know.

I pull the flaps down
and pray not to have to make any real decisions.
I fold my arms and close my mind

Believing I could never adequately open it enough
to safely live in the world outside of this closet.
Here I sit wondering what to write on this label
in order to be left alone

All the while longing for true love
a thing never given to a quivering china doll
shut up in a carton at the bottom of a wardrobe.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 14



THE LONG VIEW

The long view requires an enduring embrace of the past. It requires a great love of people, the race and individuals. I cannot see what we do and flee. I can own what happened, what happens and what is to come if only so I can ratchet improvement into my own behavior. I can see and feel and change, cringe if I must, but go on. The horizon is there to set the stage. It hangs there long and low. It stands guard for the life there is to live. I will view it and use it as my gauge. Keeping perspective is the key. I know it for what it is and that makes me, me. The short sight and the long view. My open arms hold it all; my sight brings it all into my heart.


Floss between the permanent ideas in your mind.


*
Life Events in Burlap

Two left feet in a gunnysack allows no forward motion
and creates only a windmill that screws us into the ground.
There is more perspective, front and back, more view,
but nothing to do with it, nowhere to go.

We are better off as book ends than this awkward foolish pairing.
You go your way and I go mine works fine if we are cut lose,
if any one person can be free of any other.

You offer to change your perspective if I change mine.
I smile, almost laugh at the idea of two right feet in a gunnysack
and no improvement in sight.

This is not grade school, not field day,
I must turn to you or you to me and nothing else,
no fair is fair, no turn taking.

Because my past is not your future
and your future is not my past.
Face forward on both accounts and then we run the race.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 15



BRATZLAV


If all the world is a narrow bridge, I must broaden my mind. If all the doors close to the passage of a hallway, I must exit through the window. Never again can I stay and shelter in a small and confining refuge. A womb is a place to come out of; it is never a place of return. I am not to seek over- exposure but I must ever widen the gate. The brave face I show is the gift of a tight world owning me for far too long. Fear is never meant to be larger than life and the world should never collapse around the sweetness of a smile. Today carries us. Tomorrow draws us. The world is a bridge.


Carpet the memories that echo shame in your mind.
*



Underoos



Why is it that I store undies I never wear
in my panty drawer and leave no room for my favorites?
Why is it that I have things in cupboards
that have not seen the light of day in years,
but they are kept as sacred?

I don’t use my storage for me
it is saved for obligation to inherited obsession.
I live on the fringes of the only life I have;

I didn’t question this.
didn’t see it for what it really is.
I don’t live in my skin only my head.
I don’t enjoy today only plan for tomorrow.

After years at this address it is time for me to move in.
The mortgage is more than paid;
it is time to spend my inheritance.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 16

MAIL

I form my query, fold my mind and mail it off to God with a stamp of approval from my sponsor. The questions sent are of no great interest but the responses are a spellbinding group. What is returned unopened is a wide array. The circuitous route taken by some is a charm of elucidation. I rub my fingertip over the intact seals and marvel at the travels of the wax. I mourn over the defunked gods and their public relations organizations. Slow is my resolve to pore over the replies. I get easily caught in lackings and shy from true contact. The equations embedded in my heart read the letters and sing the notes; these songs are just for me. I know them like my name. I turn the envelope and see how old the postmark is.


Remember your comfort needs a life of its own.
*

Pearly Whites

Reaction is a separation, a polarization;
it cuts you from me and God from we.

Response is a connection, an inclusion;
threading a line from you to me
and stitching God into our pockets.

I realize now that any positive connection
is an instantaneous link to my Higher Power
and can’t help but bring us closer.

Tiny feet carry beauty and kindness;
tiny teeth tear the fabric of the world to bits.

I must let my footwork conduct my life’s work
and seal my lips and reserve the dentistry.

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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 17



ALL BETTER NOW


Mother kissed the booboo and I wait for the admonition to take effect. Waiting, I count the problems like telephone poles on a long journey. What will it be like, the world all better? The anticipation nearly breaks me for a while until waiting turns to disbelief. A chill fills the space and 'all better' becomes the cry. My sponsor calls for moderation and lowering my expectation. The child’s ears ring with the promise to be fulfilled. She can not give herself over to a world where a Band-Aid is not a cure-all but only a cover for the slow work of internal healing, scars and all. Sheer survival is not sufficient for the screaming toddler; heartbreak from injustice calls for more than endurance. But, alas, a kiss is all we have.


Time pulls the tide and the tide pulls you; let it.
*


Who Rang?


Examine the instillation of your buttons
as a process of discovery for disabling them.
Pay attention to the wiring but also to the hardware.

Sometimes the advertising is the thing
which keeps alive something better off put to rest.
Many things are rooted in other pots
and have a lifeline from outside of the current host.

All the connections and housing should be explored
as well as what work the mechanism does once pressed.
Is there a gong, tinkling bells?

Does it release the wolves from their den or tiger from his lair?
Information is a tool which never fails to help me
in disassembling the traps and their triggers
I must not shy from the gathering.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 18



STRONG WORDS

Serious language, deep language, real language helps me by grounding me. I don’t have to be nice for company when I can just tell the truth. I needn’t have guests with virgin ears or unrealistic expectations, and I no longer pander to such foolishness. I know the layered meanings of my words and value the intensity of a large vocabulary. I am not intimidated by prudish co-conspirators who stare down pointed noses at powerful utterances. Weak words make poor boundaries and breed victims. I will not be trapped by niceties; I will speak clearly out of necessity.


Allow your integrity to increase the value of your truth.

*
Martinizing


The price of upkeep scares me, it daunts me even.
I pay the initial cost, I have bitten that bullet
of required outlay; the continued charges for maintenance
push my face in the mud until my ears clog.

Avoiding the need of perpetual responsibility
to things, relationships, life, doesn’t change the reality,
rather it embeds in my skin a slick denial and an indignant retort
to the drycleaners and shoe-shiners of the world.

Waste and want play tag inside a misunderstanding
of what is required of me; of what life requires in general.
I must make quietude, draw a map
and find my way to this psychic change;

Unfortunately all the little voices scream
“Yes, you paid the price to see the show,
but you don’t make enough to stay!”


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 19



URBAN LANDSCAPE


“I am taking this giraffe to the penthouse. Do you suggest the elevator or the stairs?”
“Why do you choose these complicated tasks to fill your days?” asks my sponsor.
“You think this is beyond my abilities?”
“I didn’t say that. I do believe either you or the giraffe is likely to get bent out of shape. But that is only the most obvious of observations.”
“What if I told you being disproportionate is both of our natural states?" I asked.
“I know that, too. My darling little lamb, you may be a contrast to the multitude, but why make it harder? Why not a ranch with cathedral ceilings? Bay doors even?”
“You are taking out the spirit of adventure,” I say.
“Baby, you may have confused frustration with excitement,” says my sponsor.
“Yes, but you have forgotten the view.”


Put three buttons on a shelf.
*


NaCl


I work arithmetic instead of telling you to stop.
I make a light remark and never take a stand
until I have worked the numbers
and believe that the weight of suffering is on my side.

I store in the cellar the salt I found in my wounds
and label it, with names, dates and corresponding critique,
all waiting, hoping, I will never need to disclose them,
but keeping them accounted for just in case things go badly.

I believe there is no chance for error with silence
and no wrong when I have backup in the basement,
but I need to table the salt and risk my reality.

You can’t hurt me worse than I do
when I pour old salt and create new wounds.



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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 20


STRETCHING

Stretching is not equivalent to change. Limbering is nice and warms the muscles, body and soul. Over-reaching, over-compensation is trauma; it distorts the symmetry and breeds erroneous thinking. Extension beyond the bounds sets me up for a fall. I misinterpret touching with fingertips with a firm and able grasp. I don’t step forward because I believe I have a hand on things, failing to see how this is different from an embrace. The sinew tears and the fabric of my life is destroyed. I lean forward but I go nowhere.


Open an old letter and read it with a fresh mind.

*
Inspection

My disease paid a discourtesy call on my bourgeoning sobriety.
Peeked in to look for cracks in my foundation,
weaknesses to exploit.

I recognized the patch job I had toyed with
would have made the easiest of targets for this eroding thug.
I am ever so grateful that I cleaned off all the bricks
and made new mortar.

Built on bedrock my re-laid block
will withstand the indignity of the pounding prodding sickness
which used to inhabit this once dilapidated space.

I can keep the villain at bay
and live my cozy life thanks to a true level
and the handsome turn of my trowel.


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

[LeftWriteFemme]

May 21


CHOICE

Growth is my decision. I don’t need conflict or catastrophe to bring me to change. I choose each day come what may, to roll out the refuse. I am not tempted to leave it in to rot just because the sun is shining. Good days are good times to improve. How could integrity be retarded by joy? I am not punished into recovery. I will never accept a Higher Power who set up a system like that and I give wide berth to people who claim their Higher Power did. My bottom may have been an inducement to start but choice keeps me coming back.


Smile in the mirror and look into your eyes.


*
Balustrade

Just because you appeared from the dark
doesn’t make you a wizard.
Just because you make the world safe for mankind
doesn’t make you Hercules,
nor does your power and foresight make you his father.

Your resourcefulness and guile doesn’t make you Ulysses.
And just because you spend so much time
strapped upon that cross doesn’t make you,
well, we all know the rest of that refrain.

Human is what you are whether I see that in you or not.
Human is a blessing even if it feels to me a curse.
I need the superhuman strength you seem to offer
but I must live in the world of what is real.

I want to be stolen away to the safety of your lair
and not live on my feet and fight for my life.
I have to stop wishing to be your captive
and work harder at simply being your friend.

If I can let you down off your pedestal perhaps
I could then climb down off mine.


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