Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 5



THE FORGOTTEN


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




Dispel assumptions, inhale willingness.
*



What is “offender” number 2?

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

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

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

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

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



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 6


THE THRONG

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

If you can’t write, sing.

*

More Than Less



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

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

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

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

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

I am powerless over everything and responsible to everything.
Anything else is incidental
and with loving help will work out if I do not panic.

Ah, to love myself as G-d loves me.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 7

THE SEAMLESS DOOR


Tongue and groove fit tight; the pickled boards belie the passage. Hinges buried deep, secreted inside the place with no words, the door remains shut, hidden. The air, candy sweet, the space, filled with the unbroken stream of surreal childhood. What can I tell you of this living snapshot? Nothing but the haltings, stops and shudders of a life encapsulated. Proudly, I walk from this train wreck only to find the tether stitched to my heart, my soul, my mind. Flashing through the room, I weary and wonder. I have often found myself outside this confusing destination, but never have I seen the door. Always, I believe, this time I am free of it. When I find myself again within this realm, I know it is something I cannot be parted from.
Then what of the door? The undetected portal was spied by me one day while it swung in the breeze. I saw the simple barn and the open loft door; I never thought my incubus to be housed in so plain a construction. There the turmoil of my forward motion stored in the attic of the pony shed. So many tragic contrivances are stored in such candid spots. Accessibility is the beginning of approach; I take the stairs.

Remember willingness doesn’t need to float; it swims

*


Two Powers



The river and the bridge;
one force swift and roiling
the other stolid and stoic,

The first carries me away
and the other carries me over.
For the love of liquid, current and life
I have slipped in to the water
and washed; my life abandoned.

For love of upright contact,
terra bound movement and love
I cross the bridge.

Will I be deposited in the Ocean
or wend to the City and back?
Where is the greater power
in Surrender or Choice?



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 8



ACCIDENT OF BIRTH

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


Test your mind with poetry.

*


From Pen to Progress



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

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

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

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

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

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



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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 9


READY

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


Put a joke in your pocket.
*


Simultaneous Acceptance



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

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

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

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

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


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[LeftWriteFemme]

February 10



FORGIVENESS

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



Design your dream tea.
*


Hospitality


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

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

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




.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 11


UNIFIED THEORY

When I build the circuit correctly the light comes on. When I heal the shards together the bell rings. If I am meticulous and attentive, if the world is gracious and bares herself to my mind, I will see how everything fits. I know the reflexive nature of things, and the way life folds one thing inside the other. Whale song is a long slow underwater birdcall. Moon rise, sun rise, then the moon again. The universe works without my interference but also without my complete understanding. I am learning how to be a part of this beautiful maze; I long to comprehend it. The weeds are trying to take back the city. If I lay down maybe they will take me back, too. If I keep my eyes open I might see it all unfold. Conception without is my desire within.



Make emotional bouquets for your mind.
*


Recognition

All I have are these two hands
I can not lift the world
All I have are these two legs
I can not flee the hoards

All I have is this one heart
though need and want prevail
All that’s left is this one mind
to try to tell this tale.

Everything in this bright orb
is there for me to see
Everything laid out before me
all that I can be

Everything that I perceive as wrong
and know it in my heart
Everything I think to touch
and change believing it’s my art

Once I take the giant reins
acceptance escapes the scene
Once the fates are in my grasp
chaos is the theme

Once the sight of my right place
is lost from in my mind
Once I try to fill the great big shoes
is the day that I go blind.



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