Friends of Bill W.

[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.

[Tommi]

Thanks sherrie. As always, enjoyed today's writng.

Sometimes it takes a simple reminder, a writer's nudge to look into your own harbor.

On this extra day, I took an early swim, lazed in the jacuzzi and realized it has been 5 months since I have been in the water.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Originally Posted by Tommi

Thanks sherrie. As always, enjoyed today's writng.

Sometimes it takes a simple reminder, a writer's nudge to look into your own harbor.

On this extra day, I took an early swim, lazed in the jacuzzi and realized it has been 5 months since I have been in the water.

Seems to me that 5 months is far too long, the water is so good for you! I hope you have a great day!

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 1

WANTING


“Wanting to be alive is not as important as wanting to do right," said my sponsor.
“I don’t want to be here," I half blurted, half sobbed.
“I know," came the reply. “Many of us come in not wanting to live.”
“But sobriety is about living.”
“Yes, and you want to be sober,” said my sponsor.
“But I don’t want to live.”
“This moment. This moment you don’t want to live but you still want to be sober. You still want to do right.”
“Yes.”
“And that is what you’ll do. You’ll pick up the tools as you have done so often and you will try everything suggested. You’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?”
“You’ll keep it up and see how you feel the next day.”
“What if I never feel better?”
“Ah, well. When have you ever had anything that dependable?”


Don’t force joy to simmer let it boil over.
*
Van and I
(Happy cleaning windows)



When the fog clears and I still can’t see,
I check my optics and wash my windows.
The mundane upkeep hones my pursuit.

After the weather and housekeeping concerns
are managed, eye exercises are next on the agenda.
I have to strengthen my equipment,
stay fit or fall prey to vagaries
of nearsighted limits or farsighted failings.

Myopia is an ever presence danger
I must guard against as well.
A fixed focus is a death trap.

I must learn to track a moving target
while I wend onward.
Nothing in life is stationary;
concentration and a decent line of sight
are priceless rudiments.

Continual practice with the tools and tactics
build my confidence and sharpen wit.
Burdens are lightened
when I see my goal in stark relief;

I can chart my path and make my way.
Sobriety means if I can see it I can believe it,
so I best go get the Windex.

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 2

IF I HAD A SCREWDRIVER




If I had anything other than this hammer, possibly, I would discontinue pounding this helix into the side of my universe. The slot is unused; the flat head of my sledge slams. A wide void is punched into my abyss as the threads are pummeled not turned. If I had picked up the right tools, if they had been displayed within my reach, if my granny had five wheels she might yet be a wagon.
I have picked up new tools but, having never seen them used, I bang with them. Watching others twisting the wrist and angling the elbow, I try to wrap my mind around the posture. Muscles I have never used, laminated to mental configurations unthought of, improvement in workmanship is slow. Many a fine toolbox has remained full and untouched, the mind lacking the dexterity to grasp the in-workings, the body ill-equipped for the outer. If I had a screwdriver, I pray I could bring to it the flexibility of sinew and the nimbleness of wit.


Remember the minutes; they belong to you.

*


Reality and Desire


“I know the difference between desire and reality,”
I whisper to my new found friend.
Who I am and what I am,
are a reality unto themselves,

Your recognition of that
and how you handle said recognition
are for you and God.

The vastness of the true you;
I hope to spend a lifetime surveying;
but not sampling.

What you want and your reality
are not mine to mind or mend.
If you are driving that train this is on you

If HP is the driver all the more incentive
for me to be still, enjoy the ride and await the outcome.
For in the end the question is never,
will you be mine, but what will I be to you.

[Tommi]

Realizing that there are only so many minutes.