Friends of Bill W.

[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.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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 present 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.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 3


SWEAT

I turn the desk lamp into the eyes of God. I put question after question to the construct of my childhood concept. “Would you please explain?" Or, "Exactly why did You do this, that, or the other thing?" "Are You now or have You ever been a member of…?” I put the pressure on; the beads of perspiration join, then trickle. I have God in ‘the box.’ I will not relent.
“I don’t understand You," I say disappointedly, as if speaking to a troubling adolescent. “You have so much potential if only You would apply Yourself.” The icon shakes Its head slowly and deliberately; I shake my head, too. So much time has passed and I am no closer to embrace.
“You don’t understand Me,” says God to me. Dawn breaks; I uncuff this mythic creature.
“You are not the one I am looking for. You are free to go.”



New is neutral, not better or worse.
*


Stepping up


I look along the list of names,
look upon the sea of faces.
Are there any whose eyes I avoid?

I gaze across the landscape
are there any craters,
any pock marks, any divots.

I tick through my actions
those I’ve recently taken
checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.

These combined facts and figures
create a portrait of my day;
I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.
If I can smile at what I see
all is well if not I begin the repair.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 4



DICHOTOMY’S EMBRACE


Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?
Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?



Write a collage.

*

The Horse of a Different Stripe



When I arrived at the horse and pony show,
I saw all there was to see;
there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.

Yet I couldn’t help but return
to this particular zebra,
the spark of my imagination,
the inspiration of my dreams.

There was no help for me,
I want what I want and need what I need.
It was all about spirit, all about soul.

The fire in its eyes matched
the burning of my heart,
ignition at the point of recognition.

Then I stumble, then I fall,
bad behavior and wrong thinking,
the selfishness of the self-involved
takes hold and runs my mouth, “

Nice mount, great steed,
But can nothing be done about these stripes?”
The flash in those eyes,
the knowing knickers, said it all.

I was trying to stay in my small place
and that would never work with her,
if I wanted the Zebra,
I had to be willing to go to Africa.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 5


AND I BELIEVE YOU

“This will be easy,” says my sponsor.
“Oh, yes. Simplicity itself. I’m sure,” I respond. “I’ve participated in these plans before.”
“We get good results,” she retorts.
“I love how you pick goals, which are intellectual straight lines and emotional roller coasters. You do it with an open face, not a modicum of guilt.”
“Why should I feel guilty? You keep getting better; I keep staying sober. What is there to feel bad about?”
“The guileless look on your face; I fall for it every time, but no more. I know you’re cunning. You know this will be hard. I remember when we worked on honesty. What could have been simpler? Or hope, how sweet a concept. After thirty rounds on the floor with setting limits, I realized you’re like the bean seller that Jack met. You say they are magic beans and I believe you. You say they will grow to the sky. I know they will and I will climb them. Just don’t tell me it will be easy.”


Write an advertisement for your best quality.
*



A Duck Trying to Teach a Fish to Swim



Just because you’ve been in the water
doesn’t mean you know how to swim.
Just because you swim in the water
doesn’t mean you can teach me how.

Floating on top and plunging your head
under the surface occasionally
doesn’t qualify you to safe guard me.

Poaching is unpleasant to those of us caught,
we that were foolish enough to believe
that birds of a feather can teach school
are picked off and swallowed
by the benevolence of so much quack.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 6



MOAT

I dug the moat; the alligators came on their own. The rain fell; I did not bid it. I’ve burned all the bridges. I’ve sold the farm. I wonder at the company I keep. The birds fly in; some stay for a season. Friends used to wave as they passed. Now my island is overgrown; I stand to my chin in the tall grass. I guess it’s a matter of maintenance. What I don’t keep pruned grows back. The connections I don’t secure weaken and fail. I am subject to all that falls if I don’t keep my roof. The wind chaps me without the walls of my home. No clothes, I burn. No joy and all I do is cry. It takes more than a continuous ditch to protect my heart. More than water and reptiles to safeguard my soul.


Memorize an affirmation for a pet.


*


What and When, When and How……and Why


Arriving at the place where I have nothing to prove,
afforded me the luxury of not having to proclaim
the amount of time I have, when I share in a meeting.

Taking the score keeping out of the equation
I was then able to think of what it was
that motivated me to speak in a meeting.

Self-Possession, a great gift to inhabit,
a greater gift to demonstrate;
quiet dignity is a real favorite of mine.

If I am calm yet in control,
if there is time, if there is a lull,
I can share parts of my experience.

If I have chaos, an agenda, a theory, a grudge
it is all better left unsaid in the meeting
and saved for the less vulnerable ear of my sponsor.

For if I am wrong I might persuade in error
and if I am right I might convert in righteousness.
Why is it that what I never say
rings louder than anything I do?


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 7


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 the children to starve the adolescents is a sad fate, and abandoning adults after bringing them all this long way would be indescribably cruel. I cannot work on healing all the while waiting for some ice floe to shove myself off on. There is never a time when I am not the responsible party for the people who inhabit my interior life. I live their reflection 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 to 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.


Make a truce with your fears.


*

The Price of Today’s Ride



Much of my spiritual awakening has been spent
separating myself from the nightmare of the past,
reassuring myself that in fact, it, the horror, is over.

As my present has improved my reactions
are still invested with the hide or fly coping
of a child dealing with terror.

Things get better yet barricades are erected,
departing flights secured.
Disengaging the clutch of fingers wrapped so tightly
around the escape hatch takes a great deal of my
short supply of faith and confidence.

Laying down my anticipatory reluctance
in favor of optimism has had the breathtaking feel of pain,
though in fact it was only the separation
from a poisonous crutch and the vacuum it creates.

Allowing myself to see beauty
at the same time as I deal with the truth of the past;
standing in the full light of morning
and not blocking out the brilliant pain of night
is the outstanding gift my spiritual path affords me.



You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 8



YOU ARE ALLOWED TO CLOSE WINDOWS OR KEEP THEM OPEN

Not every open window offers a warm and welcome breeze. There are windows, which greet with artic blast and little else. Frosted cheeks and chapped lips, I face these frigid openings believing it is my lot to forge ahead in this bluster. Never did I think to shut the glass on this disagreeable weather. I am allowed to close windows but I didn’t know it. Every irksome thing that comes my way is not mine to face; many things will pass my way. This does not make them my responsibility. On the other hand, when spring blows honeysuckle through the air, it is a fine idea to prop the window open with a stick.


Wave gently good-bye to yesterday.


*

Migration

Why does an alcoholic leave the drink behind?
To go where it’s warm,
because drunkenness has become cold comfort,
because the climate has changed.

The wind resists the flight from the bottle
and the initiative to break the flow
is rotated among the flock.

Though each member of the band plays their part,
the one diverting the air just ahead of me
and the one just behind trumpeting
still hold the majority of my attention.

Flocking is my primary purpose
because survival is the intention of life,
demise the intent of my illness.

One more sober day is all I can ask,
it’s all I ever need,
it’s all that’s ever offered.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 9



PICTURES AND FRAMES


I paint my way into the corners of the frame. Each picture I fill diligently, color, texture, all the tricks I use. I work hard to get the desired effect. I hold nothing back; I put heart and hopes forward. I load my brush with pigment; I propel my tongue out of my mouth. I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses its tail. Stroke after stroke, I layer the image. My depiction is fresh to me. I bring the green, the red, the blue, blue, blues; all of those flow from me. The canvas fills; my soul soars through the tinctures. Then the disappointment begins, the complaint and lamentations. The perspective is off. I can’t seem to contain this scene within the confines of this gilded prison. I re-adjust. I tilt my head; I paint from the bottom up, then the top down. No, no. I must pick up a new canvas, the frame oak, burnished and honeyed brown. I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing; I lay it along the wall with the others, the many discards of life. As yet, the obvious has escaped me; the tint, the hue, angle, size may diverge but that is all. I have recreated the same scene in all the frames. In all my attempts, I have painted only one picture.



Learn your process.
*

Résistance


Resisting tough love
is approaching long run action
with short run thinking.

I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall,
but in the end if I do not put him down
he and I will both be the worse for it.

Whether I see a forest or I see trees
depends so very much on my perspective,
also on my willingness to delay
the prevention of minor scrapes
to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.

The theme is greater personal responsibility
and less irrational fear.
Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities
by not hamstringing them today
through the resistance of tough love
saves lives, it saves mine.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[LeftWriteFemme]

March 10



VOLUNTARY MUTE

I have learned I don’t have to answer just because someone asks. I have learned to change subjects. I have learned it is better to say nothing. Repeating the phrase, ‘it’s just my opinion,’ followed with, ‘I could be wrong,’ has proven insufficient. Somehow things frequently turn out worse than I expected but, as of yet, none have turned out better; this upsets. People become angry when I am correct; they are less angry when I’m silent. I tell the truth and trouble follows. I didn’t get sober to lie. So, I keep my mouth shut. There is no reason to distress folks, and reality has a way of doing that. Silence is my new defense. I hide inside of it and find my new freedom. Unless it concerns my sponsor, my sponsee, or my cherished friend, battening down the hatches saves me from a tempest and spares others their outbursts.



Persuade yourself to breathe.

*

Conception 2

My active voice is the elixir of fire
my addiction would have me snuff
in order to keep us hidden from each other,
me hidden from you, you hidden from me
and no one noticing you or I pouring the drinks.

Minus my active voice
I slip easily into unconsciousness,
my effectiveness doused.

My active voice is the light in my room
the candle in my window,
the glow within me,
which illuminates my days as well as my nights.

Moving ever forward the gyroscopic precision
of this voice never fails me
if I keep my “listening ears” turned on and tuned in.

My active voice is and will always be
the live wire connection of my Higher Power
uniting with me through people, places and things.

My effective conscience
is everything that results from this bond.
I run at an unfathomable rate of efficiency
when my active voice is on,
my feet fail to touch the ground as I fly to right action,

The nature of my effective conscience
is just that, nature,
as natural as if I were not carrying a fatal malady,
but instead possessed the secret to serenity,
which in fact I do: sobriety.


You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

[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 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

[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