Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 24

DOMINOES




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


Carry yourself.


*


Over Troubled Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Sherrie that was a great piece today. Over troubled water really resonated for me.

Day 25...

...thank the Lord 'this too did pass' and it's not like the train-wreck of the past two days. *heaves a sigh of relief*

I woke at 7.30am...yes A.M! For those that know me, all this early rising is shocking.

It's a glorious day with a hint of real spring warmth in the air which makes everyone feel better and smile a little more. I've also had the comfort of seeing Pops who is not particularly good at emotional support but at least listens and loves me unconditionally.

I'm tempted to go to a meeting tonight but the one that's feasible to get to is the AA meeting that I first went to 3 weeks ago that was so static and glory stories about drinking. I'm not so sure this would be a positive use of my time, if it disquiets me in the same was as it did 3 weeks ago, when I could be reading about the Hossbach Memorandum and Lord Halifax's first visit to Herr Hitler.

Anyhoo; thanks all for 'listening' and your support

Just for today I am so very grateful to be sober despite myself.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 25

SOD



Green and black, pinwheels of rolled grass speed by me on a flatbed. Sod headed for home. That is how it is for me. I grew in a place of impermanence, a place clearly not my destination. Uprooted and prepared for relocation, I am in transition. My future surroundings, unknown, will be a perfect fit. I have been anticipated, grown for a purpose, of which I am uninformed. I have done my part. I am ready to lay down my roots and become a lawn of seamless expanse. Somewhere my Higher Power is grading a hill, smoothing the way. I am ready to take my place in the landscape of sober living and right thinking.


Advocate for the sweetness inside you.
*
Cured



Ham is cured.
Thank God I’m not ham.
Ham likes to be the center of attention.
Thank God, I’m not ham.

I can’t be the worker among workers
if I believe I don’t need to work.
I can’t be a friend among friends
if I am an island or a precipice,
above or away from the need or reach of others.

Cured is a one way street
that leads to a dried up lonely end.
Just the same way that turning my cucumber
into a pickle took me out of the garden,

Curing takes me away
from the only home I know, recovery.
Though I am often raw and sometimes fresh,
these I can survive,

Finished due to the drying out process
that would be a living death.
Thank God I’m not cured.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 26

TOP



The chipped paint of the red stripe gives the illusion of fading to rose as it spins. The edge, painted with green, thalo in its intensity, reflects the windows of the room. The bead, purple and gleaming, affixed to the stem, holds the cuff with its two apposed openings, the cord recoiled inside. Underneath, protected from easy observation, resides the point, lathed and faultless. The turning weight is carried and balanced perfectly on this nib. The hum, spiraling and melodic, comes from the table as well as the top, the epitome of form and function, grace and harmony. In spite of it all, the only thing that truly matters is who pulls the string.


Be polite to your dreams.

*


Exceptance


“I want God’s will for me,”
I sigh to my sponsor.

“Except for this and except for that,”
is her trig response.
She knows me, knows I have exceptance.

“You have a list of exclusions,
a list that dams up the works.”
“Well, trust is hard,” I splutter.
“Trust is not the issue here,” says she.

“You don’t feel acceptable
and exceptance is what follows.”
“Whatever could you mean?”
my broken bluster leaving only this plaintive whine.

“You believe you’re not good enough
for God or anyone
and cross everything off the list
in an attempt to duck blame
or shame or some other nasty thing.

You are good enough kiddo,
get that and everything else is good enough, too.
At least good enough for now
and now is all we have. Accept that.”

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 27

BELIEVE



Listening to what people say is a half waste of time; believing it is a full waste of time. Truth wills out in behavior. No matter what is said, what is done is the real deal. What is done over time is the final test and the things which are repeated, resounding from one generation to the next, are to be counted on. Believing in told truths is a snare and delusion, the trap of all traps.
If your sponsor has a sponsor you may sleep at night. If your sponsor works with that sponsor you can sleep soundly. Doing the right things, doing them over and over again, doing them with others, your group, your friends, your sponsees, will make you believable. I can think of nothing else that will.


Tickle your age and laugh with it.
*

The Resentment of an Acorn


Because no one believed
that I was a giant oak inside,
I had to prove it and drop my little cap
and leave my shell behind.

Now I stand big and tall,
alone, board feet to the sky.
I have lost my portability in my quest
for the recognition of my potential.

My amazing growth painful due to its cause;
poor mental health is a bitter road to achievement.
As I stand head and shoulders
above the undulating canopy
reflection comes on a sweet breeze.

Am I sorry I’m here, it could have been worse,
could have been eaten by a squirrel
or glued endlessly to a third-grade art project
“my walk through the woods”

Bugs could have gotten me,
though that looms even now.
I could have disintegrated, lost my power and integrity.

Whatever the driver I am appreciative of the destination,
there were many darker roads on that map.
It’s good to be here. I
It’s good to be anywhere sober.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 28

ONE IN A THOUSAND



“Did they tell you the odds when you came in?” asked my sponsor.
“Yes. One in thirty makes it to the rooms. One in thirty of those stays for five years. One in a thousand gets truly sober and is catapulted to another dimension." I responded.
“What was your response to that?”
“Well, I showed the proper amount of surprise and said, ‘Oh, my.’”
“Yes. What did you think inside?”
“I thought. ' Climb with me or I’ll climb over you.’ Not very spiritual is it?”
“It worked. You’re still sober; a lot of folks aren’t. The company you keep is sober. There is nothing less spiritual than being drunk,” said my sponsor.
“Is that why it’s called a selfish program?" I ask.
“I don’t know. It seems to me sobriety is a gift you give to the world.”
“But I give it to myself.”
“Can’t give a gift you don’t have in your possession.”
“Point taken.”


Do what you can and try the rest.

*

Adjustment


The chase is on, round and round it goes
and where it stops no one knows.
I run after control and change as I grasp,
but can never quite get my fingers
wrapped around the thing.

An open fist is an adjustment;
no fist at all would be a feat.
The fool’s errand I send myself on brings suffering;
there would be suffering anyhow,

I feel I am the cause due to my attempt to avoid it;
another backhanded attempt at the illusion,
the goal, control.

Adjusting to reality is at first freefall;
rarely do I get to second.
The shape taken by the shift in my gears
to no gears at all dilates my pupils and the rest is white.

If the colors come back I don’t know when.
If the ground beneath me returns I don’t know how.
I am blinded by the light and can only follow the sound.

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 29

YARD BOAT


Early in my life, I lived in a gated yacht club, the canal passing in front of my home. I had no boat. I didn’t know how to sail. I had not a thought of learning.
In later years, I learned to sail. I covered the water in choppy tacks and prayed for safe returns to shore. Those were the years with a yard boat. Covered in a tarp, the blue sided craft sat dry, the sun and wind taking their toll. The vessel stayed on the trailer waiting to be towed to the reservoir where it would fill, water leaking in from every joint; I would bail and sail with all my heart.
Timing has never been my strong suit; rare are the times when all the ingredients come together in my life. I have used this as an excuse to feel like a failure. I have used it to blame and dismiss God. I have used it to avoid pursuit of opportunities. I have averted my attention from the satisfactions of all the pieces in my life. Living on the water is a pleasure, and stolen moments, tacking in the basin of round valley, an equal joy. Happiness with what I have makes more a surprise, not a necessity.


Allow yourself private joy and public sorrow then reverse it.
*

Pucker Up


The gifts I never expected,
never knew I needed,
never imagined wanting,
arrive wrapped in fretful apprehension
more often than not.

“Who knew?” I ask myself
standing swathed in a skin
I never realized I owned.

My identity has been handed to me
an article at a time,
each item less likely than the last.

Do they fit, yes of course,
fit as if they were made for me,
fit because they are me.

My inability to recognize myself
is a stumbling block;
my willingness to try is my salvation.

Though there are times when
a kiss is just a kiss,
there are other times when a kiss
can change the whole world.