Friends of Bill W.

[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?

[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.

[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.

[Tommi]

Congratulations is all I'll say for now. It's the middle of the night . .

"Wave gently good-bye to yesterday."

[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.

[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.

[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.

[Bad_boi]

As of next month I will be 3 years sober. I haven't abused caffeine in any form, pills or drinks in 1056 days. In this span of time I have noticed considerable changes. I have more natural energy, my thoughts are more clear and level headed.

I remember the day I quit. It was the day after I OD'd on Nodoz and Redbull. I was watching videos online about welding. They were talking about how you can't weld if you have a pace maker. I decided that I didn't want to screw up my heart so I could be a metal worker. As of this year I started my first welding course. I am proud to say I have a reason to beat my demons.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Originally Posted by Bad_boi

As of next month I will be 3 years sober. I haven't abused caffeine in any form, pills or drinks in 1056 days. In this span of time I have noticed considerable changes. I have more natural energy, my thoughts are more clear and level headed.

I remember the day I quit. It was the day after I OD'd on Nodoz and Redbull. I was watching videos online about welding. They were talking about how you can't weld if you have a pace maker. I decided that I didn't want to screw up my heart so I could be a metal worker. As of this year I started my first welding course. I am proud to say I have a reason to beat my demons.

Congratulations! Welding is wonderful.....sobriety makes so many things possible in my world, things I never thought could ever be in my grasp and yet today they are my reality! Good luck in all you do, Sherrie

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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

[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 set back 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.

[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.

[RockOn]

I'm realize I am so repetitive ... but so what ... *grin*

What a fine day to be sober! I think that to myself each morning. I hope I always remember that.

Happy to announce the weather calls for a clear weekend. YAY! I already mowed my lawns after work last week so .... onward with outdoor projects that were on standby due to rain.

I must go pick up a five lb bucket of 3 1/2 inch deck screws ... then I am an all action happy guy the rest of the day. LOL! I am in such a good mood this morning - almost beside myself. Heh Heh!

Whoever let loose and left my endorphin gate open, you have my tremendous thanks. *butch giggle*

[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 can not 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?

[Ginger]

Originally Posted by LeftWriteFemme

March 18

Cold and despondent, nothing comforts me like the bear of early sobriety.

The Bear of Sobriety would be a wonderful manuscript title. Really interesting work!

[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

[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.”