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.

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

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

There is a Tree

January 18

THERE IS A TREE

There is a tree in the woods.  I’ve seen it.  It is cut off from any visible source of strength or sustenance.  Carried aloft by the surrounding trees, the splintered trunk dangles in the air.  It makes no connection to the forest floor.  I know the feeling.  I have been cut off too.  Violently separated from my God, as it were.  I probe the fractured stump at the bottom of my soul.  I explore the crevices seeking tendrils of hope.  My anxiety bonds to my frustration, but faith eludes me.  I look down to the broken place, the view unrealized by me.  I have a vista of unimagined beauty provided to me by the growth of others.  I am eye to eye with my peers, held in their loving embrace.  I bloom and flower with them.  I endure the winters the same as they, and come spring am the stronger for it.  I don’t know why I was damaged.  I don’t know why I was saved.  I am grateful it is done.

My sponsor says it’s for our sobriety and the pleasure of your company.

Think of three honorable people.

*

Between Two Chains

The curving movement half seen sweeps forward

and catches me squarely on the chin.

Realization glimmers that next time

it will strike me in the mouth

and I take a step back.

I estimate the returning arc, raise my arms,

push the board back from whence it came.

As it hurtles toward me once more, I reposition.

Force returns force;

fury comes vigorously my way

and I thrust with strength and enthusiasm.

And this is fine for what it is.

I have learned how not to get hit.

I can push when I get shoved.

How much better will it be

when I can get on and swing?

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

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Rings of Color against Butterflies

July 19

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, but 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.   

Listen to music the way you walk through a garden

*

2 CHAIRS

Math is the language which 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.

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

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

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.

Color Rings against Butterflies

July 19

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, but 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.

Listen to music the way you walk through a garden

*

2 CHAIRS

Math is the language which 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.

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.