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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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