My Babies

July 31

MY BABIES

Too often I have abandoned the infants of my creativity to doorways and charities.  Having little patience I did not raise them to their intended station.  Joyful parentage need not stop at the cutting of the cord.  Downplaying the importance of each birth, I would leave beauty and art to be foundlings and the province of others.  I can share the guardianship of these precious gifts and be more than a brood mare for cunning and craft.  I have neglected things apparent for the promise of each new conception.  Overpopulation weakens the body of my work and leaves my portfolio listless and immature.

Touch your finger with your nose.

*

Charmed by Snow

Warm weather snow falls in fat full flakes;

I am living in a world of dreams and sweet peas.

Sudden dustings sparkle and surprise

leaving as quickly as they came;

yet the world is kinder now.

Beauty is an ambush of the heart.

My breath alters, accelerates,

speeding me to a smile, an illustration of joy.

Crows walk the edge of the hedgerow,

prattling on as they do;

snow to their ankles and food on their minds.

I drive over the mountains

discovering myself as the recipient,

the receiver of all this great gift, this life.

Definitions

July 30

DEFINITIONS

I am close to my Higher Power but I have no words to describe It.  I have found it best to say nothing unless asked.  When I do speak, it is always about the path I took or the way I held my face.  I know the things that changed, and the wind that blew.  This is not the sketch most people seek.  My skin is brown and my smile broad; this is not from over-exposure to beams of light.  Closeness warms me.  I glow from standing near.  I know the face and form is different for every day; I must not stop for definitions.

Taste silence and smell the words.

*

The Acts of Hope

I cover my head when I pray

in hopes that God wants me sheltered.

I attend meetings to keep alive the hope

that sobriety is the end of isolation.

I talk to the people in my network

hoping I have something helpful to share.

I sit down to the blank page with hopes

that HP still chooses to collaborate with me.

I pick up my paintbrush filled with hope

that color is still my friend.

I inhale air along with hope that each breath

is worth the effort and I am worthy of this life.

2 Chairs

July 29

2 CHAIRS

Math is the language that moves closest to the speed of my brain.  The language of recovery slows my thinking so I am more than numbers and clicks.  I need not race my mind in an effort to win.  I am my prize; the victory is mine if I can embrace who I am.  I can use numbers to figure whether I am more or less, but owning who I am must be given to the talk of the soul and heart.  My nashamah is not an astral projection to be theorized but the seat of my emotions.  The only way to discover myself is through deep and loving conversation, so I had best pull up two chairs.

Play colors like music.

*

The Regulator

Face to face the clock stares me down.

I nearly dare the mismatched hands

to beat me at my part.

Their never-ending round-house

drops me to the ground.

My foot work is no equal for eternity.

Fancy days and star lit nights distract me

from the fight I’m losing,

directing my thoughts to what I gain.

If I turn with the hours,

dwelling in the moments,

the clock and I are friends,

no more mad-dogging, no time to lose.

Time is with me till the end,

it is not the death of me;

it’s the time of my life.

Juxtaposition

July 28

JUXTAPOSITION

Right next to this world is the globe that I came from.  The landmarks are similar but these spheres have little in common.  The angle of refraction illuminates the place of my origin.  The source of this light is legend.  On my home planet, the existence of sobriety is cast off as myth.  I held on to this tale with my heart.  I slipped the gravitational bonds of crazy one night by the glow of the ready button on the coffeepot.  Here and there intersect at only one point, a room with some chairs and a circle with a triangle.  The meeting was on Step One and it was a good place to jump in.

Put a leaf on your tongue just for fun.

*

Clap

I know how to put my hands together,

but I am unable to clap.

It’s not that my palms can’t locate each other;

it’s that I cannot find the beat.

I sing; lilting rhythms rolling from my tongue.

I keep time and drum the tattoo of jingle dress dance songs,

but when my hand comes against its mate something is off.

Faltering nuance plays havoc with my exuberant desire.

I want to join the crowd in syncopated applause,

yet my brain drops out.

Because the gap is too far to leap

I must walk around to the other side

and by then I’ve lost the moment,

the world has moved on without me.

I used to think I needed to run my routine a little faster,

but now I realize I need to learn to leap the gap

and trust the beat to find me.

Graft

July 27

GRAFT

The bottom has been cut out, my underpinnings stripped from me.  Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted, saddled onto the rock like stock of other people’s sobriety.  Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow.  I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living.  I cling to the cleft; divisions made from the people, places and things of my past leave me split, primed for fresh growth and opportunity.  Never again do I need return to the sordid acquisition of power or control.  There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence.  Graft is graft for good or bad.  I don’t have to grow where I was planted.

Subtract your assets from your defects.

*

Un-imbedded

This week I have decided to be braver

about where I invest my time, not all of it mind you

but a portion of my diligent yet strangely unproductive time.

I have to say I am realizing that I hide

in pretty much every area of my life

and that is no way to live

and a really bad example to offer.

The worst thing about hiding is it doesn't keep me safe;

it just subjects me to different evils.

It reminds me of that poor reporter

who was imbedded in a tank.

He died from not moving, his blood pooling and dehydration,

so the tank kept him from getting his head shot off,

but killed him in a different way,

so in the end he wasn't safe and neither am I.

I believe in prudence as a good policy, I do,

but there is much that could make me

stronger, happier, better,

if I lift my head a bit and reach out my hand.

To Sloop

July 26

TO SLOOP

When I was a tanker I carried such a heavy load.  The diesel cycle ran, combustion occurred at regular intervals and my internal temperature was terrific.  The fuel sprayed and things went round and round; the cost was high.  Now my principal means of propulsion is the wind in my sails.  Conversion was difficult, and though I found the rigging and mast a fascination, the ballast was a heavy load to bear.  The price of stability is responsibility.  Cargo is something short-lived, to be cast off at the next port.  Incumbent discretion is welded to my keel and will go with me to every harbor.  As a tankard, liquid was transported or consumed; as a cutter, dependability keeps me tacking into the wind.  Now, my outlay is low and my rewards are high.  I carry only what I need.  I am free, a sloop upon the sea.

Map your body.

*

Keds

If I gave a child a pair of sneakers

would I refuse to help them to tie them on?

Would I want this kid to wear them open,

tongues hanging out, laces dangling and dangerous?

Or worse would I want the child

to have to lug the sneakers around;

the kid feeling the need to treasure the gift

and protect it from use or wear?

I hope that I would not be this sick,

misguided or deranged.

I have to say that I have given up believing

in a crazy God.

But this doesn’t mean that I can’t

drive God crazy with my insane behavior.

I have to stick my feet inside my shoes

and lift my foot for help.

I must open my mouth to ask,

then pay close attention so I can learn

to do it on my own;

all the while not beating myself up

that I can’t do it already.

The Living Dream

July 25

THE LIVING DREAM

Throwing yourself into the river in pieces drowns you as crumbs.  Casting aside love and longing makes you less in your heart, and your soul stops beating.  Pitching your tent with critics and complainers leaves you out in the cold on warm summer evenings.  Crest the hill to meet the rising sun; orbit the constellations without hesitation.  Petitpoint the pictures in your mind, then set them to music.  The world is your dream.  Live it into reality.

Picture your voice.

*

God

I need help.

I need help availing myself of the help

You have provided me.

I am embarrassed to lack the ability

to complete all the steps necessary

for achieving the goals you have set before me.

I see now that it is always my turn with you

and I can stop standing aside

believing that I have had your attention

and must now do without.

I do not want to ask for more;

I don’t want to seem greedy.

I forget that you know my heart

and that you trust me.

I am going to make that a two-way street,

maybe a four-lane highway.

I need help,

thank you for being help full.

Love,

Sherrie

Wake

July 24

WAKE

Don’t worry that you might spoil the procession by getting out of your coffin. You don’t need to lie there waiting for the lid to close.  People will walk past saying, “so sad,” and “too bad,” but don’t lie in state to keep them from feeling their trip was a waste.  Just because the crypt has been purchased doesn’t mean you are ready to go.  There are still opportunities to dance.  Don’t die for love, glory or pride.  Don’t die before your time.  Death is only an honor if you lived every preceding second.

Learn to use your appliances well.

*

Speak!

Are there songs a bird must not sing

while communing with the flock?

Do fish learn to restrain their expressions

while schooling?

Or are we the only animal

versed in the language of taboo?

I wonder when I hear the cows

lowing in the night are they giving whispered voice

to things they longed to moo about all day.

I know what to keep inside,

things too flamboyant for out of doors.

I understand to keep body and soul together

I must keep down and hush,

But when I complain to my pup

does she comprehend or is it

just blah, blah, blah,

in her world of, ‘speak it like it is?’

Quick ------ Sand!!!

July 23

QUICK------SAND!!!

“Don’t ask me how deep the quicksand is,” said my sponsor, “it’s your job to get out of it, not to quantify it.”

“I’m not sure how to get out.  Will you come and get me?” I ask her.

“No, Darling.  If I get in we will both be down for the count.  The only chance we have for me to help you is if I stay out of the morass with my feet planted firmly on solid ground.”

“What if you can’t get me out?” I cry.

“I will go get more help.”

“What if all of AA can’t get me out?”

“Angel, my hope is, that if there was no way out, you wouldn’t even know you were stuck.”

Limit your limits.

*

Before Ophelia

Young women drown themselves before Shakespeare

immortalized, memorialized Ophelia.

But having a poster child changes us.

Cautionary tale or rallying cry,

Ophelia is a hand to hold on dark cold days

when the light is hard to find

and everything seems bent toward destruction.

Not that I think she solved anything

with her despondent act

just that she stands in the familiar frame

I find myself in from time to time.

When I imagine I’ve invented the wheel

it makes it harder to step down and walk.

Ophelia’s fate makes it easier to get off depression’s bus

and find my way back home.

Hold the Line

July 22

HOLD THE LINE

Relax is not the same as give up.  Unwind is not fray.  Let go doesn’t mean never grab hold.  It is important to have moderation in all things including moderation.  Exuberance and enthusiasm are wonderful in their season; too much and I could get an adrenaline addiction.  Make sure your song has more than one note and make sure that you sing more than one song in your life. Change, interest and excitement are vital to my existence.  Like my sponsor says, “if you take all the spikes and ridges out of your life-line, it means you’re dead.”

Give allowance to yourself.

*

The Landscape of Words

Paint takes time to dry;

I work with words.

I say azure and you are there with me,

even if I am far from this mortal coil.

My pigments stay fresh as long as you know blue,

as long as you can hear me, read me, see me.

I paint 6X8 cell and we are imprisoned together,

trapped,

till I tell you of the key I slipped into your shoe.

I love the flow of watercolor,

adore the mushy paste of oil,

but nothing beats the world we paint

and repaint here on this page.

Symptomatic Bouquet

July 21

SYMPTOMATIC BOUQUET

My bouquet of symptoms took root in alcoholism.  I displayed these blossoms to few.  I thought I could keep these problem posies to myself.  No need to worry, everyone has a bit of manure in their lives; mine will hardly seem strange.  Planted in addiction, things grew in a dramatic way.  Pruning became unworkable; drastic measures were required.  Uprooted and exposed, these virulent stalks created the need for help from better gardeners than I.  Thinned and repotted, these character traits have fruited with many a lovely harvest, none of which could have happened had I been left in the family plot.

Make your mind a womb you can return to.

*

Rules

There are rules about breaking rules.

You can do it this way, but must not that way.

Cross this line and you get dragons;

cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.

Beneath the reflective surface of law

I have found many shoals and sandbars;

rocks and outcroppings,

layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.

I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the

same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles,

or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.

Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from

and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.

You see this investigation is just another thing

from under that sea.

It's My Party

July 20

IT’S MY PARTY

The party I was throwing for myself in addiction was nothing but a very long wake.  There were no smiles, only murmurs of what might have been.  I was filled with tears I couldn’t cry and mourned my death as I caused it.  When I took off my little black dress and stepped from this shroud, I closed the bar, clicked the switch and the dirge stopped, the funeral ended prematurely.  I walked into AA where I learned to be the life of the party.

Make a safe space for your radical tastes.

*

Taking the Field

Humor is an illustration;

a joke an explanation.

I learn far more from the smiles than the jeers.

Laughter carries me; an action,

which tears can’t always accomplish.

It is hard to live with constant descent,

but wit is a quick impassioned friend.

Thoughtless conformity is an evil companion

I prefer the company of those who play.

Life is too hard from the sidelines;

I would rather take the field.

The Water You Drink

July 19

THE WATER YOU DRINK

“Anyone who has to be dragged to water doesn’t deserve a drink,” said my sponsor.

“What about raising the bottom?” I questioned.

“I’m not talking about that.  I am discussing people you try to convince into recovery.  The folks you try to accommodate.  The ones you attempt to bend reality for.  These are the type who will piss in your well.  Let me be clear, I am not concerned with the individuals who piss in the pool, which is rude and disgusting but basically not life threatening.  When your well is defiled, when the place you draw your drinking water from is used as a chamber pot, your life is at risk.  Don’t ever pull your pants down over someone’s fresh water.  Don’t let anyone squat with their bare ass over your sobriety.”

Play in your play clothes.

*

Rings of Color against Butterflies

Resistance I can accomplish directly;

impedance requires magnetism from an alternating world.

I can drag my heels and live life in a sandpaper shack

making everything a chore,

What it takes to throw furniture in the path of progress,

slamming doors and turning off the lights

that is more than I can do on my own.

This takes the cooperation of my disease and me,

the monkey-hoop, which is effort and clever repartee.

Look how well we do it, too.

Distracting possibilities, staving off humanity and the humane,

may not sound like much, but it takes up our whole day;

Goodness is such a persistent little grub.

It takes a concerted effort to prevent it from chrysalis

and failing that, still more determination to make sure it doesn’t fly.

Far off Places

July 18

FAR OFF PLACES

Meetings too near home are unsatisfying to me.  On smooth, simple days local meetings are fine; I catch a meeting, just slip it in.  On rough days I yearn for an out of town meeting.  After these many 24’s I’ve come to realize I need the ride as much as I need the meeting.  Like a discontented baby I need more than just a trip around the block.  The comfort of taking flight in my car is equaled by arriving at some far off AA. Fresh faces and new-takes-on-old-woes are an antidote to my colicky attitude.  The drive back offers me a sense of triumphant homecoming.  A good meeting can be had anywhere.  Sometimes I just need a change of place or change of pace.

Keep a lock of your own hair.

*

Cicatrix and Love

The mark left by injury is indelible

though it may heal, the consequence remains.

This is also true of love.

I am branded and changed by your affection.

The improvement wrought in me does not leave when you do.

If you stop loving me,

can you no longer remember my name,

 my face,

my sigh;

I am better for having had your love if only for a short time.

Good medicine offers lasting results;

the miracle of your love is my health.

The blush in my cheek,

the revitalization I feel is traceable to you,

to the days you held me in your heart

and the nights you held me in your arms.

And though I want you back in my world

the best of you lives on in my life.

Time Table

July 17

TIME TABLES

I know the train is coming and I want to read the schedule.  I hear rumors that the convoy going to Feelings will arrive in two years.  The five-year expedition to Getting My Brains Back seems unlikely but is often commented on in meetings.  Excursions to far off destinations such as Functional and Reasonable have me on my feet in gleeful anticipation.  Still I wish for a clear mapping of time.  I feel I could leave off worrying about the how of it if only I could be sure of the when.  This cavalcade of adventure would be so much more palatable with a well written itinerary.

Sell yourself but not short.

*

Horse Play

The sequestered equestrian rides alone through the night;

the wood is as quiet as she.

Passing no one;

speaking not a word,

she slips into the paddock without a nicker or a neigh.

I long to be just as she,

not silent sentinel,

but living a whist fleet life,

a power unto myself.

What stands between are my hurt feelings

and my longing to be loved.

I can’t blame myself for either,

but work to heal and grow.

Nagging need is a pestilence I will be well rid of;

the irredeemable past is luggage for a catalog,

not for hauling on my back.

I will mount up and ride my great round stead,

the night is mine when I am ready

the path is there I know.

Magic Wand

July 16

MAGIC WAND

“Why are you wearing that hat and waving that star studded stick?"  I asked my sponsor.

“Isn’t this what you want, a magic wand?” she replied.

“Whatever are you talking about?  I don’t want you to play wizard.”

“Don’t you?  You thought walking into your first meeting would------poof-----make you all better.  When that didn’t work, you held your breath for 90 days.  When that also proved a disappointment, you let the air out of your blue face and started the white-knuckle routine for one year.  At the end of twelve months, you released your arthritic grip and started scheming for a new sponsor.  But the new wicked witch sent you scurrying back to me.  Then, it was a relationship with undying love that would break the spell you are under.  Now tell me again how you don’t want me to use this magic wand on you?” said my sponsor with aplomb.

“I guess my behavior gave me away.  Go ahead, say your incantation.”  I closed my eyes and waited for her words.

“Show up and do the work.  Keep an open mind,” she said as she waved the cudgel.

“That’s it?"  I asked.

“Well, yes, but I have to come back every day,” she grinned.

Set the table for breakfast just before your midnight snack.

*

Rounder

Back again, yes, that I see,

but change is not the same as return.

What I know of you is your past.

I believe the past because I know it.

If there is a new you to meet

that remains to be seen.

Even a chameleon sheds its skin,

though I doubt its intrinsic nature

is altered much in the process.

So flash your smile and wind your words

into the thoughts of those with whom

you have no history.

I’ve been exposed before,

the virus doesn’t conquer me, I am immune.

Once bitten makes me wary

when you come around again.

The Rainbow

July 15

THE RAINBOW

“What is with that look of concentration?” asked my sponsor.

“I am trying to see the gray.”

“The gray?” she queried.

“Yes, I heard at the meeting that between black and white there is a lot of gray.”

“Ah.  Well, my darling, I don’t want you to have black and white thinking, but what lies between black and white are all the colors, the full spectrum.”

“What am I to do with this information?  What do I do with all those colors?” I asked in shock and confusion.

“For right now, just remember that all the colors aren’t blue.”

Set out your clothes and plan their day.

*

Blocks or Points

The decision must be made; would I rather be criticized

for having done something that is imperfect

or be criticized for having done nothing at all.

Disapproval from others is not possible to prevent.

What I do in anticipation of it is in my control.

I can spend life running from trouble,

chasing peace through underachievement.

Or I can step-up knowing that gravity works

always to pull me down

and that this is neither gift nor burden,

it is simply fact.  I

I must choose when I will stop tripping

over stumbling blocks

and realize them to be turning points.

Key

July 14

KEY

I asked for the key to my problems.  My expectation was a metal instrument with which to unbolt the lock to my desires. What I was given was a systematic explanation of the symbols on the plan of my life.  This has been a wonderful gift and I have benefited greatly, but first I had to stop brooding about the loss of my wished for trinket.  Putting names on my map helps me stay off cliffs and out of rivers.  The code is broken; I can decipher direction and intent.  The compositions of life’s offerings fit and harmonize in unimagined ways and create archways strong and unbending, giving me access to reefs of beauty and rest.  I asked for the means to open a door but gained entry to the world.

Don’t lug excess baggage, ship it.

*

Sympathetic Strings

A guitar with 28 strings generates much sympathy

from the cords which were not strummed.

Pluck is contagious and inspires much harmony and verve

in the vicinity in which it shows face.

Sympathetic strings vibrate in response to the jangling

around them but are tuned to their own notes.

Much distortion adds to the depth of the sound

created by this throng.

Can you hear my life?

How a disturbance in my life rings

in the lives which surround me?

How I twitch and chime when things are twanged

in the lives of my neighbors, my friends, my kin.

We make the music of care,

the discord of reaction.

To every move there is a sound,

to every sympathy a harmony.

Distillation

July 13

DISTILLATION

I came into these rooms with a mixed mental make-up and a polluted physical chemistry.  I have been transformed but only into tiny droplets.  The drops are not dramatic but the process is.  Distillation of my thinking is a powerful thing.  A volatile act of concentration takes place as my brain boils over and the sane is separated from the profane.  Purity is a spiritual gift, the result of vaporizing my old thoughts.  Many times the night distills the dew and I am quickly refreshed; other times I must cook for quite a while.

Exact a toll for crossed boundaries.

*

Wales

It is safe for the houses to sleep in the streets,

but not for me.

I cannot follow that which is so right and regular

for mundane things.

I am a jagged piece and it is hard for me

to find my place.

The sun comes though everyone’s windows

and peeks around the blinds left down.

I must mind my manners

and not be a nuisance or a bother;

draw no undue attention to my brightness

carry a basket to hide it in.

And while every river can drown its sorrows

in the rush of the downhill sweep to the sea.

I must stand here stock cold sober

and bear the pain appointed to me.

Noun, Verb, Adjective

July 12

NOUN, VERB, ADJECTIVE

Model Sobriety (mod`<sup>e</sup>l so-bri`i te), n., v., adj., 1. model sobriety acts like clay. Durable and flexible it molds to any situation.  2. model sobriety is like a clotheshorse; everything you put on it fits and looks good.  3. model sobriety is the 24-hour version of a life-long process.  4.  model sobriety is a set of axioms with which we interpret truth.  5.  model sobriety is what we put in the window for other sufferers to see.  6.  model sobriety is the mirror we use to learn what is natural.  7. model sobriety eliminates extremes in behavior and thinking.  8. model sobriety is the mode by which we become a channel.  9.  model sobriety is the definition in and of my life.  Noun, verb, and adjective.

Write an acrostic poem for a dog.

*

Old Nasty

My addiction is like a Percheron,

bigger and more powerful than I am,

but what I have learned is that if I treat this horse

with due respect and a guiding hand

from my recovery and my Higher Power

I can harness the energy of my illness

and use its’ force to make my life work.

I can never be the master of alcoholism,

but I can see it for what it is;

an overgrown instinct looking for an outlet.

When I am given my way out I take this beast with me

and when I value that partnership we are both safe.

When I have tried to lock it in a stall

and run far from the barn, it kicks my life down.

When I put my head in the yoke willingly,

together we are led and we do the work

which is fulfilling and rich.

I was meant to work in a team,

I am grateful to have a teammate.

Spontaneous Generation

July 11

SPONTANEOUS GENERATION

Dust under the bed turns into bugs. My grandfather believed in these alchemies of myth.   I thought myself free from the small witchcrafts of threat.  The longer I stay sober, the more real is the insidious nature of my disease.  Mental clutter does breed all manner of squirming and chattering vermin.  Every intellectual closet I leave uncleaned is a brooding box of contempt, false pride and bloated ego. The synchronism of hatchling defects and nursing grudges, fairy tale thinking and firebrand action, mimic Grandpa’s bedbug rantings.  I can never turn my back on unswept philosophy or the dross of assumptions I’ve left waiting in piles.  Spiritual house cleaning is all that saves me from the transmigration of blood sucking, life-draining phantasm.  Supernatural transformation needn’t plague me if I take right action. The difference between blessings and curses is the direction you are going.

Tiptoe into your heart for a peek.

*

A Year for Me

The world is my mollusk

and I am its pennyweight paragon,

witty girl that I am.

I have spent enough time

surrounded by wet feet and confining shells,

all held at the bottom of the sea.

This is a year for me.

I am going to climb over the rim of my briny brink

and try myself against the fearsome winds of chance.

Although souse is buoyant

I feel strong enough to stand my ground.

Time has come for life, open and raw,

but I shall leave the clams to the casino.

Regeneration

July 10

REGENERATION

When I am grabbed by the extremity of my thinking I drop my mind like a reptilian tail.  My feet believe they are in no need of my brain in order to run; independent flight is the action of the day.  Far from the time and place of my dissection I find regrowth the problem to be solved.  Unlike a salamander’s toe, can I generate my wits to their former ability or must I live out my existence with a docked psyche?  My desire curls like a python but dreams of becoming the phoenix.

Smile at your orange wedges.

*

Let God Do What?

I hesitate to let go to God because

I fear that God doesn’t like me, or likes me now,

but doesn’t like me all the time.

I think I got this belief from being the only child

of parents who don’t like children.

It never mattered how good I was,

how smart or thoughtful, well informed, helpful,

I always ended up being treated like I was a burden,

someone to be endured.

If only I was likeable, I would think to myself

and try recreating me to become….what?

Finally I settled on indispensable,

if I could make myself necessary,

then my life would be okay.

People would need me therefore they would want me.

What I discovered is that people who can’t live without me

end up resenting me, by the time I was so important to others

I was no longer important to me, so I didn’t need God’s help

because I didn’t need anything, I didn’t exist.

Over time what I have settled on are a few truths:

People who don’t like kids shouldn’t have them.

And I need God’s help to learn how to want to be here on this planet

since I was not brought to earth by people who wanted me.

Shimmer

July 9

SHIMMER

The water ruffles over metallic sheen, lap after lap screen the view, and still the gilt reflection shines in my eyes.  Hypnotic, the undulence pulls me near.  I stand on the edge, gaze, then gawk; I follow the underwater movements and iridescent tremolo.  I forget place and time. I lose sight of the facts.  Gold isn’t the only thing that shimmers. Sometimes that glint is just a fish.  Life is full of fins and fantasy.  My sponsor suggests I stop looking for my life in a wishing well.

Think of all beans as magical in someway.

*

Special

Is it the wiring between my ears,

the size of the pump in my chest?

The difference which can be seen

when you look from me to the neighbors?

I know that you feel me to be special.

I feel me to be special, too,

just like you.

Defining that thing, that combination

which unlocks the mundane

is more than just an attempt to point a finger,

it’s a search for that little light.

Close and closer we pull together

and that is special but now I will whisper it,

tell you the secret truth is my ability to play.

Come play with me!

Pastry

July 8

PASTRY

Like French pastry, sobriety gets richer with each layer.  As I investigate these layers I approach the buttery center.  The fat seeps through the years, makes boundaries crisp and intimacy velvety.  Ingredients, which ordinarily wouldn’t mix, somehow blend and counterpoint one another in a flaky shell.  Fruit and nuts improve every bite. Though there are times which are a bit crumbly, most of the structure is strong and the invention skillful. Pastry and sobriety are compositions of strength and brilliance, which are meant to be taken internally.

Juggle solutions.

*

Night Clothes and Bed Clothes

Is there any indulgence

quite like that of clean sleepwear

warm from the laundry?

Pulling on jammies over squeaky clean skin

and the little shutter that goes with tired hedonism

is a pleasure without formed words,

left for grateful sounds and little moans.

Hard work creates more than stability,

more than cash flow, more than mere exhaustion,

hard work changes my mind about delight.

It allows me to see it in the most obvious,

most subtle of places.

My bed has become haven, hospital, refuge

and I am tucked up in my nest, safely out of my mind.

Cold and Flu Season

July 7

COLD AND FLU SEASON

The spiritual cold and flu season is upon me.  I am awash in reaction and confusion.  I have been overexposed to the dry thinking and barking orders of the cough so associated with this disability.  My eyes swell and blur with my refusal to accept reality.  The tickle of discomfort from inhaling disagreeable ideas is small in comparison with the nausea I suffer when I swallow every line of nonsense put forth from my dizzy and congested mind.  There is no pill to dissuade my symptoms; I must raise the heat on this inertiac little bug.  Parasites breed in the stagnant water of my paralysis.  If I move in my sobriety, sweat a little and flush my system, I should be able to shake this insidious germ.  Then I can reach my hand out to the people who caught the spiritual flu from me.

Write pretty words on pretty paper.

*

Tooth Fairies and Super Heroes

I never know who the tooth fairy is going to be.

Who might be the one person

who will know CPR in my hour of need.

Which unlikely friend will whisper to me

the secret code to my mental lock.

I have been caught off guard by the power

of the most unlikely wallflowers.

It is important for me not to prejudge,

but even more important to leave space for surprise

and the delightful aptitude of those around me

For that matter from strangers on the street.

it is good for me to remember there is change in my pocket

and a Resuscitation Certificate in my wallet.

Optical Illusion

July 6

OPTICAL ILLUSION

From the right angle a hatpin can appear taller than the Empire State Building.  I can skew my perspective to such an extreme or let my disease do it for me.  I can believe myself to be other than I am: the sweetest, kindest------smartest, quickest------smallest, slowest-------lowest, meanest.  I can see myself as all this and more as long as I squint with one eye and look at only half of any issue.  I can play the parts and act as if these things are true.  I can even get others to play along.  I can make fantasy fact if I lower the floor.  I can die in the basement, many do.  I can turn my face from science and be the center of all that spins..…OR….. I can climb the stairs to ground level.  I can turn my mind to facts and fractions.  Leave my better-than, less-than universe and see the height of everything and stand tall with both my eyes open.

Put a surprise in your pocket.

*

Keeping My Seat

I can sit through this. I can do it,

even when I don’t remember that I want to.

I will get through this no matter how it tweaks me

and I squirm in my seat.

In spite of the unfairness of it all,

I can do what is right, because that is what is best for me.

Acting out or giving up are options that I have.

I like me too much to choose so poorly.

When this is all settled I will still have me

no matter what else I gain or lose.

If I don’t like me anymore I have lost everything,

if I can hold my head up, proud of my behavior

this is the most valuable gain.

Love is only love

if I am still here to feel it,

so I will sit still.

Utility of Emotion

July 5

UTILITY OF EMOTION

I plug into the utility of my emotions.  These utilities aid my life as all utilities do.  The duel prong of anger serves to light me up and gives me strength to set good boundaries.  The four-line clip cord of pain allows me to keep in touch with my Higher Power, my friends, and my fellows.  I have nothing to share if I can’t stay real about my pain.  Fear is hard to contain and is carefully piped.  Explosions of fear can start so easily it’s a good thing its foul odor can be smelled in the air.  The coaxial cable of joy screws neatly into the back of my mind and gives me endless delight, color and sound; these are the privileges of sobriety.  Emotions are plainly utilitarian but they help me survive and make living into a life.

Touch all the letters in your name.

*

The Biggest Chicken

I love to be mystical,

but the only dragon in my life

is when I let things drag on and on.

Procrastination is the winged beast in my world

and when she is slain the sun comes out

and I can count my blessings and plan for my possibilities.

The deep ditch left by depression

is where the lizard lays; siphoning my time

and sucking clean the bones of my wasted talents.

I have lunged and poked, stabbed her with my steel

and blown holes in her with my revolver,

but not until I sever the tendon with which she holds me

in her grasp do I have any real chance to be rid of her claws.

Once free of her I must be forever vigilant

lest her smothering song lure me back to that evil nest

where I feel as helpless as her egg.