You are Allowed to Close Windows or Keep them Open

March 8

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO CLOSE WINDOWS OR KEEP THEM OPEN

Not every open window offers a warm and welcome breeze. There are windows, which greet with artic blast and little else. Frosted cheeks and chapped lips, I face these frigid openings believing it is my lot to forge ahead in this bluster. Never did I think to shut the glass on this disagreeable weather. I am allowed to close windows but I didn’t know it. Every irksome thing that comes my way is not mine to face; many things will pass my way. This does not make them my responsibility. On the other hand, when spring blows honeysuckle through the air, it is a fine idea to prop the window open with a stick.

Wave gently good-bye to yesterday.

*

Migration

Why does an alcoholic leave the drink behind?

To go where it’s warm,

because drunkenness has become cold comfort,

because the climate has changed.

The wind resists the flight from the bottle

and the initiative to break the flow

is rotated among the flock.

Though each member of the band plays their part,

the one diverting the air just ahead of me

and the one just behind trumpeting

still hold the majority of my attention.

Flocking is my primary purpose

because survival is the intention of life,

demise the intent of my illness.

One more sober day is all I can ask,

it’s all I ever need,

it’s all that’s ever offered.

Mud Pies

March 7

MUD PIES

Mud pies and retro-childhood are for the hurt ones, small and angry inside me. They require care and special attention, but I can’t stop with them. Saving the children to starve the adolescents is a sad fate, and abandoning adults after bringing them all this long way would be indescribably cruel. I cannot work on healing all the while waiting for some ice floe to shove myself off on. There is never a time when I am not the responsible party for the people who inhabit my interior life. I live their reflection every day; there is no one-way mirror with which to hide unresolved issues, no rug to sweep them under; they flow through me like a river. I must return to them to breed new health as a salmon swims back to the waters of its birth to bring new life. I must brave the complexities of maturity; I cannot just sit in the mud.

Make a truce with your fears.

*

The Price of Today’s Ride

Much of my spiritual awakening has been spent

separating myself from the nightmare of the past,

reassuring myself that in fact, it, the horror, is over.

As my present has improved my reactions

are still invested with the hide or fly coping

of a child dealing with terror.

Things get better yet barricades are erected,

departing flights secured.

Disengaging the clutch of fingers wrapped so tightly

around the escape hatch takes a great deal of my

short supply of faith and confidence.

Laying down my anticipatory reluctance

in favor of optimism has had the breathtaking feel of pain,

though in fact it was only the separation

from a poisonous crutch and the vacuum it creates.

Allowing myself to see beauty

at the same time as I deal with the truth of the past;

standing in the full light of morning

and not blocking out the brilliant pain of night

is the outstanding gift my spiritual path affords me.

Moat

March 6

MOAT

I dug the moat; the alligators came on their own. The rain fell; I did not bid it. I’ve burned all the bridges. I’ve sold the farm. I wonder at the company I keep. The birds fly in; some stay for a season. Friends used to wave as they passed. Now my island is overgrown; I stand to my chin in the tall grass. I guess it’s a matter of maintenance. What I don’t keep pruned grows back. The connections I don’t secure weaken and fail. I am subject to all that falls if I don’t keep my roof. The wind chaps me without the walls of my home. No clothes, I burn. No joy and all I do is cry. It takes more than a continuous ditch to protect my heart. More than water and reptiles to safeguard my soul.

Memorize an affirmation for a pet.

*

What and When, When and How……and Why

Arriving at the place where I have nothing to prove,

afforded me the luxury of not having to proclaim

the amount of time I have, when I share in a meeting.

Taking the score keeping out of the equation

I was then able to think of what it was

that motivated me to speak in a meeting.

Self-Possession, a great gift to inhabit,

a greater gift to demonstrate;

quiet dignity is a real favorite of mine.

If I am calm yet in control,

if there is time, if there is a lull,

I can share parts of my experience.

If I have chaos, an agenda, a theory, a grudge

it is all better left unsaid in the meeting

and saved for the less vulnerable ear of my sponsor.

For if I am wrong I might persuade in error

and if I am right I might convert in righteousness.

Why is it that what I never say

rings louder than anything I do?

And I Believe You

March 5

AND I BELIEVE YOU

“This will be easy,” says my sponsor.

“Oh, yes. Simplicity itself. I’m sure,” I respond. “I’ve participated in these plans before.”

“We get good results,” she retorts.

“I love how you pick goals, which are intellectual straight lines and emotional roller coasters. You do it with an open face, not a modicum of guilt.”

“Why should I feel guilty? You keep getting better; I keep staying sober. What is there to feel bad about?”

“The guileless look on your face; I fall for it every time, but no more. I know you’re cunning. You know this will be hard. I remember when we worked on honesty. What could have been simpler? Or hope, how sweet a concept. After thirty rounds on the floor with setting limits, I realized you’re like the bean seller that Jack met. You say they are magic beans and I believe you. You say they will grow to the sky. I know they will and I will climb them. Just don’t tell me it will be easy.”

Write an advertisement for your best quality.

*

A Duck Trying to Teach a Fish to Swim

Just because you’ve been in the water

doesn’t mean you know how to swim.

Just because you swim in the water

doesn’t mean you can teach me how.

Floating on top and plunging your head

under the surface occasionally

doesn’t qualify you to safe guard me.

Poaching is unpleasant to those of us caught,

we that were foolish enough to believe

that birds of a feather can teach school

are picked off and swallowed

by the benevolence of so much quack.

Dichotomy's Embrace

March 4

DICHOTOMY’S EMBRACE

Contentment and security bleed in through the doors and windows of my heart. Peace blows its fine wind across my mind. I fear for my identity. I raise my hand to beat the drum. Is my pulse still there if the beat of discontent is not? The warmth seeps in, my fingers uncurl. I resist the urge to tilt my face to the sun. How can I be I, if my countenance is not bleak? Mirth escapes my lips. Am I a creature of laughter?

Shadows play across the shade. My brain feels through levels of sheltered memory. I am old and age hangs from my brow. I am young and exposure stings my flesh. In all this, joy? Where can I enfold this antithesis? A child of extreme, yes. Brooding and rage; hounding and silence. How have sprinkles and starlight added to the mix? Purring, musing and sweet kisses. What am I in this embrace?

Write a collage.

The Horse of a Different Stripe

When I arrived at the horse and pony show,

I saw all there was to see;

there were Morgans, Walkers, and Paints.

Yet I couldn’t help but return

to this particular zebra,

the spark of my imagination,

the inspiration of my dreams.

There was no help for me,

I want what I want and need what I need.

It was all about spirit, all about soul.

The fire in its eyes matched

the burning of my heart,

ignition at the point of recognition.

Then I stumble, then I fall,

bad behavior and wrong thinking,

the selfishness of the self-involved

takes hold and runs my mouth, “

Nice mount, great steed,

But can nothing be done about these stripes?”

The flash in those eyes,

the knowing knickers, said it all.

I was trying to stay in my small place

and that would never work with her,

if I wanted the Zebra,

I had to be willing to go to Africa.

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.

*

Stepping up

I look along the list of names,

look upon the sea of faces.

Are there any whose eyes I avoid?

I gaze across the landscape

are there any craters,

any pock marks, any divots.

I tick through my actions

those I’ve recently taken

checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.

These combined facts and figures

create a portrait of my day;

I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.

If I can smile at what I see

all is well if not I begin the repair.

If I Had A Screwdriver

March 2

IF I HAD A SCREWDRIVER

If I had anything other than this hammer, possibly, I would discontinue pounding this helix into the side of my universe. The slot is unused; the flat head of my sledge slams. A wide void is punched into my abyss as the threads are pummeled not turned. If I had picked up the right tools, if they had been displayed within my reach, if my granny had five wheels she might yet be a wagon.

I have picked up new tools but, having never seen them used, I bang with them. Watching others twisting the wrist and angling the elbow, I try to wrap my mind around the posture. Muscles I have never used, laminated to mental configurations unthought of, improvement in workmanship is slow. Many a fine toolbox has remained full and untouched, the mind lacking the dexterity to grasp the in-workings, the body ill-equipped for the outer. If I had a screwdriver, I pray I could bring to it the flexibility of sinew and the nimbleness of wit.

Remember the minutes; they belong to you.

*

Reality and Desire

“I know the difference between desire and reality,”

I whisper to my new found friend.

Who I am and what I am,

are a reality unto themselves,

Your recognition of that

and how you handle said recognition

are for you and God.

The vastness of the true you;

I hope to spend a lifetime surveying;

but not sampling.

What you want and your reality

are not mine to mind or mend.

If you are driving that train this is on you

If HP is the driver all the more incentive

for me to be still, enjoy the ride and await the outcome.

For in the end the question is never,

will you be mine, but what will I be to you.