Friends of Bill W.

[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 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
[ame="http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane"]Sober On The Way To Sane: Sherrie T.: 9781440417344: Amazon.com: Books[/ame]
[ame="http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life"]More Lines From My Life: Sherrie Theriault: 9781448677207: Amazon.com: Books[/ame]

[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 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