December 31
FAILED SOUP AND DISTRUST OF BURGUNDY
What keeps me coming back to meetings and step work is an
abiding mistrust of booze. Despite
promises and advertisement, hopes and folklore, I couldn’t rely on drinking to
take me where I wanted to go and I surely couldn’t depend on it to keep me
there. The struggle is great; the
attempt to cling to salvation through decanter is mighty but in the end this
joining of my chemistry to other chemistry failed miserably. No matter how I held my mouth, held my head,
held my liquor, satisfaction escaped without me and I was left here in the soup
of my disillusion and disappointment.
Failure to cooperate fully with alcohol lead me to try sobriety as an
alternative. I may not always succeed in
my recovery, but I can draw dividends on every deposit and use this to build a
path to my desires.
Make a private
heaven with plenty of windows and doors.
*
Failure of Imagination
The failure of imagination feels worse than it looks; it’s
that rancid oily coating on the skin that I abhor. The sweat that appears when sloth becomes a
burden, the confusion of an unused intellect, the mumbled acquiescence of a
weak will, creep me out of the permission that I wished to offer myself but can
not accept. The languishing mind that I
left to wither in the confines of my skull requires my perseverance. Falling down, giving up, throwing in terry
cloth objects is impermissible, I must pluck up my willingness and apply
whatever drops of genius I possess to every muscle fiber I can find. So much has been made available to me and I
must return that favor. You see imagination
only fails me if I have failed it first.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane
and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault
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