Traveling Pictures

February 14

TRAVELING PICTURES

I parked next to a beaten little import.  The well of the passenger’s side was filled with empty sport-drink bottles and cans from soda.  The dashboard was a shrine: three taped photographs, one of a young man and young woman, one of the young woman and an older woman, one of the young woman and an enormous marble statue.  There were small carved objects affixed to the dash: jade and soapstone figures, beads and a feather.  The sanctuary in my head is decked out in a similar manner.  Post card pictures line my mind: people I love, trips I took, pets long gone.  The road signs of my journey stand as exhibits of a tour of duty not always to my liking but nothing I would trade.  I know clearly where I have been, and study the map to prepare for the future.  Escapades and loved ones, trinkets strung on my lifeline give texture, flavor and flash to my pilgrimage.

Think of fish and dream of birds.

*

Progressive Fourth

All I can do is stand on the grass

and count the shutters, the windows, the doors.

At first I cannot approach to inspect any closer than that.

Time passes and the other steps work me.

I peer through the windows the next time

and count the stuffs I can glimpse through the glass.

I possess no periscopic vision,

but what is in plain sight I reckon.

Subsequently I wished to exteriorize

and draw the inventory of the house

out onto the lawn and tally there.

Wishing to avoid that interior life,

the poisoned vixen who haunted there.

Time passed and she recovered as did I,

Into the house I went.

I am now able not only to number my possessions

I can assess the flow and function,

work patterns, interplay, reliability.

I have now appraised not just the what,

but the how of my life

and progress into tomorrow.

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

Night Flight

February 13

NIGHT FLIGHT

The small log shape with large wings passed the windshield of my moving car without collision, due to meticulous calculation and correction in a night sky.  Silent passage… swift and meaningful, the owl lives as it knows how.  I was not born to the night; darkness not my given realm.  I have inverted my senses and compensated for the moonlight.  I pull my way through the air and hunt for my survival in a world of shadows.  The morsels caught on the wing, snatches of conversations and lines from books, sustain me, give me strength to live in spite of the nocturnal bondage.  I have made peace with the night.  I am changed by my living and my living endures.  The grace required to abide here is bestowed on me nightly.  I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.

Write a letter home to you.

*

Whittle it Down

A famous sculptor mentioned

that he doesn’t so much create the objects

as remove the stone which doesn’t belong.

I have had the same experience with willingness.

Encased in the bedrock of my will

willingness had no opportunity to open doors.

Flaking away the extraneous

the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental.

As the tears stream down my face

and wrong thinking flies from my brain

the key is more finely formed.

As I wheedle at misconception

and haul bodily wrong action

the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun.

Many doors stand ajar,

at first those with basic tumblers,

but now even those with encrypted defense

are no match for the willingness,

which I wield with rapier wit.

The obvious blocks to progress open to me

as well as the subtle doors to untold destination,

I am let out of danger, released into possibility.

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

Rex

August 31

Rex

Hungry dogs who love me anyway, dance around waiting to be fed.  If they didn’t love they would take bloody bites and I don’t forget it.  These puppies have teeth, like cigarettes I want to smoke but don’t.  And meanwhile back on the farm I seek to quiet the whines and barking of the unfed, malnourished familiarity which writhes at my ankles and jumps at my knees.  I can no longer pat my disquiet on the head and expect it to stay or heal.  I must hunt down the beast which bothers me and feed the meat of it to the pups.  I must not leave the lopers to quarry my burden if I want to remain master and leave them to be pet. 

Rip yourself away from distress

*

DO YOU HEAR THAT SOUND

I was running on empty

And thought I was getting along that way

But the smoke gave me away.

My life had caught on fire

And I burned to the ground.

I thought nothing had been apparent

Until it all lay in ashes.

My sponsor said, No-------

We all knew when your tank ran dry.

The sucking sound could be heard for miles around.

I asked her, if that were true,

Why I hadn’t hear it myself?

She said, she guessed,

I had my denial turned up to loud.

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

T before S

August 11

T before S

When happiness is hard work I have to learn to look for the lie.  There must be a lie for happiness flows unrestrained when not dammed.  What was built too far up river for me to see, dries out my once liquid existence; leaving me to flounder in the shallows.  I can’t allow myself to flop in the muck of waters muddied with deceit.  I will permit myself to look for clear bright prospects from melting glaciers and accustom myself to the invigoration of a life lived under a loving watchful eye.

Keep water near by

*

KILLER SQUIRRELS

AND OTHER SOBER DRAMA

I can tell you stories to make your hair curl.

Death defying fifth steps,

Speaking commitments with microphoned podiums,

Sponsees with killer squirrels trapped in the house.

The courage and sheer determination

Needed to face plague, after crisis, after pestilence

And yet sober mind and willing heart these travails

Are surmounted and we live on.

Tears turn to laughter with rescue and remedy

How strong we feel as the cape is passed

When one time panic prone sponsees

Become the model of calm and stable sponsors.

Hoards of relatives at holidays,

Interaction with bankers, police officers

And all manner of people in shiny shoes

Are handled with grace and boundaries.

Porch loving skunks, children becoming teenagers,

Are faced with humor and wit.

Things which in years gone by would have sent us screaming

To the phone are now casual asides during after meeting discussion.

Life does keep spinning on

But we learn how to stand still.

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.

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.

Doll

June 5

DOLL

“Why is your face all red?” asked my sponsor.

“I didn’t get my way,” I responded.

“And this crimson appearance is the result?”

“You see that it is.  I was very careful about what I wanted and worked hard to be reasonable.”

“And Baby, you were.  You did nothing wrong.  Your ego was in check and you kept your expectations in proportion.” said my sponsor.

“Then why didn’t it work out my way?”

“I only have a sad and simple answer for you.  The result had nothing to do with you, your wants, expectations or desires.  The whole experience boils down to only one thing: It was not that type of party, Doll.”

“Oh.”

Promise yourself tears like rain and smiles like sunshine.

*

Discussions with my Disease

“You’re not the girl I used to know.”

“Not the girl you used to love is what you mean?”

“You’re different is all I mean to say.”

“The rest you leave there to rot, unsaid?”

“Something has happened to you.”

“Is it something that you do not like?”

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Or is it that you never knew?”

“One false move could break us up.”

“All your moves are false

why will one more cause such change?”

My Sober Heart

May 12

MY SOBER HEART

The heart I have today is not the heart I have had all my life.  Cells age and are replaced.  I slough off what I can no longer use and rejuvenate with fresh layers.  My sobriety is the same.  Past step work is revamped and approached in innovative ways.  Yesterday's prayers are replaced with today’s; today’s meditations will be dispelled by tomorrow’s.  The function remains the same but it is constructed with brand new work.  Service I render is always for my sobriety but I work to strengthen various quadrants.  My heart is not as young as it used to be and vigorous action remakes it new each day.  I rebuild my sober heart continually because forever and today I have the mind of an alcoholic.

Time your thinking so it can fire your mind.

*

No Stone Left Behind

An anchor attaches at the lower extremities stabilizing me,

an albatross is the thing weighing me down from the top,

it tips me, throws me to the ground.

I must remember to choose ferrous instruments

over long necked birds.

Often it’s not the amount of drag, but where it’s affixed.

There are so many variables,

so much to think through, yet I often react

and pick up what seems as harmless as a flock of sea gulls

And turns out to be worse than an iron maiden.

Leaving not tern unstoned is bad,

but do I really have the time to do it the other way around?

Dessert

May 4

DESSERT

I have to be my own appetizer; I have to be the thing that entices and intrigues me.  I must be the roughage, the salad full of color and variety.  The entree must be me, as well.  The things that sustain me, the meat of my life, I have to supply and swallow down.  I can be all this.  I run to the sweetness of others but this cannot be my source of sustenance.  The greater part of me needs to derive from me.  I can set the table and fill it with the fullness of who I am.  I am enough and others are dessert.  Twinkies will never be sufficient.  They can only be a treat.

Make sure your work area is well ventilated.

*

Yield Don’t Stop

If I let amazement stop my progress

I will become landlocked instead of becoming free.

Picture wagon wheels planted in Kansas

when the destination had been California.

Yes, the plains are great,

but if that was not my aim it is a far cry from heaven.

Arriving at any haven is tempting;

when it crosses to captivating then to captivation,

here is where the problem lay.

Steps six and seven changed me and this is good.

If I allow this to halt me this is disaster.

If the wheels fall off the wagon I walk.

If I grow too tired to walk I pant with my friends

and we carry each other, we don’t stop.

Conservation of Love

April 8

CONSERVATION OF LOVE

Love does not diminish. It recycles like the rain, ever in transition and transmission. Love is not salvationary or redemptive. Nor do I believe it to be the currency of Godliness. Love is an element like cobalt or gold, it has weight and substance. Love is the coinage of responsibility not a door out of consequences. Love, true love, inspires right action, never cowardice or disrespect. In this strange amelioration, standing in the wings of realism, love is love no longer. Love is the standard I have to bear, not the canopy I stand beneath. In the frozen center, love cannot endure the pressure of misinformation, and melts with friction, floods with irresponsibility. Love, like money, admiration and sex, has its place and must not have expectation of being more than it is. With that said, Love is peerless, to be treasured, protected and shared.

Run away with your heart but bring your mind.

*

Up and Down: Round and Round

Like the wheel on my spinning wheel

I pump up and down on the treadle

and the wheel spins round and round,

The roving twists in my hand and yarn is made.

Really all I do is tap my foot

and gently hold on, pulling occasionally.

It is a small part I play in this production

at least it feels small almost unnecessary,

but with a clear mind I see

that without me it doesn’t get done.

I am essential yet still just a foot-tapper and hanger-on

neither of these is prestigious

yet the whole fabric depends

on my mundane actions.

I take great comfort knowing that allover

there are foot-tappers and hangers-on

keeping safe this way of life

Sometimes keeping it safe just through sheer repetition.

And if you ask, “Is that Unity or Recovery or Service?”

All I can say is “Yes, yes it is.”

Neither Frog nor Fish

April 13

Neither Frog nor Fish

I was falling and my Higher Power caught me in a net called AA, all of which was a pretty neat trick, but the strangest consequence of this is now I somehow think it shouldn’t be possible for me to drown. Defying gravity 24 hours at a time doesn’t make me aquatic or even amphibious for that matter. I still have all the corollary restrictions of anyone who is me. I still need sleep and water, food and warmth just like a mere mortal. How silly I am. I dodge a bullet and suddenly I think I am waterproof.

Don’t exchange your trinkets for your tools

*

WHAMMO

I have been hopping on one foot

With a ball of hope shoved under one arm

And a ball of hysteria under the other

I wish I could tell from the outside of the ball

Which one is hope- I worry I will put down the wrong one

So I hold onto both

My life is sorely limited by the baggage

And I fear I am losing life with every hop

A lack of information is my problem

I don't adequately know the properties of either

And suspect my every interpretation

Finally I stand before my sponsor

To ask the question of my life- That's easy Honey

Hope is the one that bounces back

Is all she had to say

Sweat

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.