I Am

August 16

I AM

I am my own hope.

The spring of willingness flows within me and makes everything possible.

I am my own dream.

Colors and sprinkles fly in my mind and mix with a sprite's laugh and make me enchanted.

I am my own joy.

Filled with wonder and delight, my quick turns and ready mind warm my heart and pink my cheeks.

I am my own prize.

New and exciting, every day that I am myself,

I win.

Pith is dry and dead, be marrow.

*

Dewy, Cheatum & Howe

I must radically sever the close connection I have

with self-seeking, self-pity and dishonesty.

What will I use to pay the retainer

for the representation I will need to pursue this divorce?

Willingness is the earnest money,

which will start the ball rolling,

hard work pitches in its share

and faith pays the note each day I apply it.

All this and more is what it takes to divide

the endless stream of my compulsive thought

into a survivable day’s worth of life.

I have the prospect of being happy as a divorcee

or I could be a miserable widow

if I stay wed to my disease.

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

Mortification

August 10

MORTIFICATION

Lime with envy, I built a wall around.  Love and hate are enclosed, brick and stone.  Rigor of extremities, the discipline of ages falls so short.  I make no in-depth connections; I coat externals with glue, stack reactions and let the bombs fly.  I mix and crush old habits and bad ideas, make a paste.  I am setting myself up again.  Abstinence becomes the pestle of bludgeoning and abasement.  I am hard and I am hollow; with wounded pride, I subjugate my soul.  My life is reduced to a powder.  I am mortified.

Spread oil from your navel out.

*

Michal Rovner

I have numbered all the blocks in my ancestral walls.

This has enabled me to recreate them

stone by stone everywhere I go.

It all fits to create the tomb I now have to learn to leave.

I must change the equation and reorder the numbers

allowing these rocks to be recycled

and find a wonderful useful life

as a stairway out of this pit of despair.

What was once an edifice to lives unlived

is now able to facilitate elevation,

a restoration of a level playing field.

It was not wrong for me to catalog the stone

and there was no way for me to leave them behind,

but nothing matches the satisfaction of using them to build a life,

except for the ability to live in it.

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

Napping

April 16

NAPPING

Too often, I have lifted the edge of the lawn in an attempt to join the worms for a bit of a dirt nap.  Or I crawled into a self-constructed cave to bear my feelings and hibernate from life.  The times I sprint with the deer, jumping the fences in hopes of escaping the wolves, these are all the times when I forget who I am.  I forget to ask direction, fail to make a meeting.  Seeing those of my ilk puts my feet on the ground, focuses my perspective on just what sort of creature I am.  I can’t always follow my instincts when I don’t know who I am.  I can’t see myself until I stand next to you.

Relax one toe at a time.

*

In Training

Like a faithful dog that was hard to train,

patience is a thing hoped for

yet peevish during the breaking in.

Stanch companionability is hard won,

but worth the cost of acquisition.

And what is the price I truly paid in the end;

whatever I gave in the pursuit of patience

was a cheap babysitter

and kept me from far worse reformation.

For what would I do in this late day and age

as a tempest torn toddler,

no bottle to sooth my woes and bothers.

Strictly speaking this is a world ill suited

to the edgy intolerant masses

and only seems to fit those who can mark time and bend.

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

Earl Grey is not my Friend

October 19

Earl Grey is not my Friend

Scabby knees is what I look for; I need to be with those who climb, not those who slide.  I hate to say it, but looking cool and sitting on the sidelines does nothing for me or my sobriety.  I have to build those calluses, require patches in my clothes, carry a hammer to pound in those spikes.  If I don’t see tools in your hands and bodily evidence that you have been using them, I really don’t have time for you.  This is a “let’s go, lets go” kind of recovery for me and if it isn’t for you then have fun and I hope you have a good seat, but I am not staying for your tea party; I have no time for tarts.

Explain the difference between a rabbit and a bunny

*

SLOTH TOES

A sloth is known by the number of its toes
Not its name or love of art or music.
The oddest attributes draw attention and acclaim
From scorekeepers and flag-wavers of the world.

Going my way in this life I am seen by clock-watchers
As timeless and by trumpeters as soundless.
I am not defined by these.

The number of my toes or the time I keep
Or the sound I make is more than who I am.
An explanation of me will not fit on an index card
Or nameplate or job title.

As long as I stay clear of these traps
And classifications I am safe.
If I buy in or fall down
My sum and total will neatly fit on a toe tag.

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

Black & Dedication

May 31

Black & Dedication

The brand of equipment endorsed by my Higher Power is built so that my hand is clasped inside lest I feel alone or unaided.  A closed mouth and an open mind work very well when I can manage either of them and Step 10 works when I can’t.  I am usually the problem in my life but I am always the solution.  Others may change and contribute; I am the one and only one, responsible for my happiness.  Dropping blame from my vocabulary and adding responsibility, learning to differentiate between what is mine and what is yours; these tools are keys and they open worlds of possibility to me.  Also they shut out the demons of wrong thinking, wrong acting and desperation, which used to plague me. There are still greater tools I yearn for but like everything I must be patient and build my muscles to handle the heavier machinery.

Dine with hope

*

GULPING

The plug that lodges in my throat

From too much, too fast

Causes the anxiety to rise in me.

The panic fills my contracting muscles

Into rock solid revolt.

I can’t live, is the predictable result

Gulping attention, acclaim, excitement, sex,

Does the same thing

My heart clots and my personality stops in mid-flow

Everything in carefully chosen, well chewed bites

Makes the process proceed

My life works along workable paths

If I stay away from oversized freight

I can never swallow myself whole

Why would I keep trying to imbibe giants like desire?

No Stone Left Behind

May 14

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 no tern unstoned is bad, but do I really have the time to do it the other way around?

Visualize the vapor trails from your words as they fly away from you

*

CLOCKS

When the clock stops

I wind it up or replace the battery

I have to-----time doesn’t end

Because the arms grow slow.

The device wears down

But the day is not over

Even if my internal metronome is bollixed

The planets keep revolving.

I can’t step off the world

It doesn’t stop turning for me

I don’t always have to keep my head up

But I must always go on.

There is no going back

I can only remember yesterday

I can’t return to it though it’s so close

The flowers are still fresh.

Sometimes I struggle

To keep my hands off the past

Those are the days I secure my future

And wind the clocks

In Training

April 18

In Training

Like a faithful dog that was hard to train, patience is a thing hoped for yet peevish during the breaking in.  Stanch companionability is hard won, but worth the cost of acquisition.  And what is the price I truly paid in the end; whatever I gave in the pursuit of patience was a cheap babysitter and kept me from far worse reformation.  For what would I do in this late day and age as a tempest torn toddler, no bottle to sooth my woes and bothers.  Strictly speaking this is a world ill suited to the edgy intolerant masses and only seems to fit those who can mark time and bend.

Be careful what you do with idols

*

SERVICE & SACRIFICE

The difference between life and death in my recovery

Is the equal difference between service and sacrifice

If I offer you what is in my hand, fine

If I also give you my fingertips, I am lost.

Service lightens the load in my heart

Sacrifice removes my tools for living

When I go into debt for your existence

The cheer and optimism is sucked from my awareness

My eyes go dead and soon I follow

The cingulotomy of obligation crucifies my future

And murders true hope and love

Service feeds my heart and yours

Renovating makes space

It builds the muscles for joy and contentment

Pumping and refilling

My plate with spirituality.

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.

Crumpled Petals in my Pocket

April 23

CRUMPLED PETALS IN MY POCKET

I can’t bring back the bloom. Cohesion, lost in ripeness, is left only to memory. I carry home the parts, folded, petite, fragrant bedding for my wistful desires. I put these colored remnants into a jar of salt. I make an aromatic rub for the sweetest of wounds. Transforming the parts to useful duty doesn’t restore the flower. It doesn’t pay tribute to the past; it is survival. I have a mind filled with roses but I must make hay. Today, I live. Today, the rose is dead, its pieces in my pocket. I don’t die with the blossom, though my head blows in the wind. The rose runs its course. I run mine.

Line your clouds with anything you like.

*

Coming Home to Work

I have arrived home to a beehive;

everyone industrious,

everyone filled with purpose,

everything buzzing right along.

My response to this of course is anger.

I have a sting and I want to use it.

I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.

The living world is now opened to me,

but my destination had been death for so long

that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.

I divide my time between gratitude and rage.

I want to accuse myself, rescue myself,

then I remember everyone in this place too

has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.