Friend of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

Happy Annivesrary!!

I am so grateful for your sobriety and grateful, too for your participation on this thread. Congratulations on 32 continous years!!! I am looking forward to spending many, many more sober years with you. I love you, I am so glad we have today together to celibrate.

All my love,


sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 7

HELP FROM STRANGE SOURCES


I can not get my mind wrapped around the places I find help. I struggle with believing I have been helped; I struggle with disbelief at my own resistance. I am helped daily by many tiny things seen and unseen. I realize now, I was injured by the same tiny things when I was misaligned with my Higher Power.
The sun rising, the tiny star I circle in this great nothingness, it makes my whole day. The air hanging around just in case I need it, which I often do. The people who live with me (a mean feat), work with me, those who exist here with me, keep my ship on course. How very sweet of them to do mostly right every day of their lives. What a help that is. The whole ecosystem and all the weather: what would I do without it? But this is on a good day.
On a bad day, the sun is in my eyes, scorching my skin. The air is too still or well, the wind is always a problem. And People, people are an endless plight. People do things to hurt, annoy and irritate me. Full intent, targeted to me, my life, my wants destroyed. Bugs seek me and I am followed by the darkest cloud, every day, all day lurking.
I am so thankful for a sponsor and a tenth step.


Name your tears; honor them for who they are



Sherrie

[homeboi]

Congrats Tommi! 32 years sober is an amazing feat. It's folks like you who give folks like me hope. Keep doing what you're doing. It's working..
Blessed be....

[ToughAsMarshmallow]

Happy Anniversary Tommi!!

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 8

OLD GOLDFISH



I got them when my sobriety was new. They were tiny little guys, ten-cent feeders. I wanted my stepson to sleep soundly in our strange jumble of a home, fresh from purchase. The tank sat on a dresser under his elevated bed, space to fit my hand to feed them, no space for baby boy to climb in. I loved my goldfish. There is never a no with gold fish; feed them as often as you want; let the water get cold. Put them in a big space, a small space, plants, no plants. No was so hard. I hate and fear no. I am hard, fish are easy.
Tears and mesmerizing aquarium. Meetings and steps. I could not keep myself alive. I don’t know how I kept the fish fed. The program kept me going, kept hope flowing, and the fish swam. In this century, when we finally are outliving wild goldfish, we are sober together by the grace of our Higher Power. It’s been a wonderful time. I am grateful to be here with the goldfish. I am grateful the goldfish are here for me, expecting so little. Maybe I could return the favor.
“I’m grateful you appreciate the fish,” says my sponsor.


Find a bell to ring


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 9

IN A BACKWATER



There is a place so removed, uninspired, ignorance flourishes. I hate to go there. I avoid it when I can. Today I could not avoid it. Today I saw the gable end of a small barn, half hidden in the scrub trees. On the face of the gable end are two plywood cutouts, large, taking up the major portion of the space. The first cutout is a budgie, a bright blue parakeet, 7 or 8 feet tall. Tilted to its side, it looks dyslexic, but intriguing. Above it is a cutout of a black guitar, similar length, hanging long ways across the top, almost from eave to eave. I don’t know what it means, why they are there, who could have put them there.
A story’s tongue is sticking out at me; I can hardly bear it. I think of God, and laugh. If my God has nothing better to do than tease me, I need a better God. I think of my Higher Power and wonder if the power is curious, too. Am I overlapping a layer of consciousness I have no part in? Is this a subliminal preview of my future? Or am I far too nosy for my own good? My sponsor says the latter. I just don’t know. It could be something all together different. I have only time. Time will tell in the end; it always does. I hate to wait.


Compare and contrast eggplant and green beans.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 10

BREAKING MY OWN GLASS



The police of a small town caught a serial glass breaker today. The man who owned a plate glass repair shop was breaking store front windows. I break my own. I go through my life; I slash my own tires and break my own glass. I fear continuity, stability, success. I love damage control, making arts and crafts from my slivers and shards.
“Think what you could do with undamaged goods,” says my sponsor.
I don’t know how to do anything with undamaged goods, except damage them or give them to others.
“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she counters.
“Stick around,” I tease.
I can make a quilt from discarded clothes, mosaics from shattered dishes, collage from junk mail. I can hold your hand and cheer you on. See the potential in every person in a crowded hall. Rescue every stray on the block.
“What have you done for you lately?” my sponsor taunts.
She is making my point. What can I do for me? Search and destroy? Live outside myself? I have to be sober to be me. I can’t go around making messes so I have something familiar to wallow in. What if I can’t do anything fresh?
“Learn to market the retreads,” she says.


Watch an old thing in a new way.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 11

LONELINESS EATS MY LUNCH


There are days loneliness eats my lunch and I can’t fight back. How can I stand it? How can it still be this bad? I pull out the old chestnuts: If I’m not happy with what I have, how could I be happier with more? And, Even tickets on the fifty yard line don’t interest me; I came to play! I roll them around. I think of the other slogans, the tidbits, the smiles and hugs. Still, there are days my lunch is gulped down and I sit with my plate empty. Pickle juice, coleslaw drool is small comfort. Actually, it’s a jeer. I stare at my empty plate. I turn it and twist it. I stick out my tongue at it.
“You're good company,” says my sponsor.
Then why am I alone? If I’m so good, if my company is worthwhile, why do I sit here hungry and desperate?
“Are you sure you are?”
It sure feels that way.
“Well it might be true.”
And it might not. I get it. I am unhooked from myself; I’m ignoring the multitude at my elbow, looking for someone in my lap. I’m holding out for old terms from a new contract. I am loved by people who aren’t trying to consume me and I am letting my expectations dine for free.


Imagine who the wind visited before you and who it is on its way to visit now.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 12

LIFE IS TOO GOOD




I know it sounds crazy. Is crazy. But I hate having the fear, the gnawing gut of “what if I can’t maintain this”? The sober life I live, what if I get struck unable to connect to my Higher Power? I had a spiritual awakening; what if I get spiritual narcolepsy? My spiritual cord was cut when I was young, not by my choosing. What if it’s cut again?
“What if this line of thinking cuts it?” asks my sponsor
I hate when she’s right. What if this is the test? Be like them or not. Follow the path of the twelve steps when there is no weight of need pushing me. I have to keep my eye on the ball for myself when everything is going in my direction. I’m still not God. This is the lesson the abusers never learned. The one I have to.
“This has been a prelude to a decision,” says she.
What decision?
“What went wrong was not bad people making bad choices in bad circumstances. It was disconnected people making decisions without help.”
I have to stay in your pocket. Never be a free bird. I have to remember what true freedom is. It’s not being cut loose. I had that and it never felt free.
“Keep your eye on the ball; hold onto my hand.”


Read a children’s book to yourself.


Sherrie

.

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 13

CATCH



How can my sensibility catch my intellect? Or find a map with enough information to get my heart to the current location of my mind? What are the common markers recognized by soul and brain? I know the pulse of my wrist is counter-pointing the firing of my synapses. My life signs run their course and I struggle to find the intersections. I long for more than signposts and curbing. I would like parallels, paradigms and conclusions. There must be a place of common home and hearth. I am looking for the depot of my life. I hope I hit it before I hit the coast.


Warm your heart with your thoughts.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 14

GRAVITY WORKS ALL THE TIME




Limits and boundaries are a drag. I hate feeling tied to the ground. I know I could fly if not for unseen forces. I sense myself lightening, smoothing, I drop my burdens; I pick up speed. Fourth dimension! Hell! I’m proverbial vapor trails. At this time I should explain. When I get moving this fast, I inevitably wind myself into a position where my head is up my in my nether regions, a place it does not belong.
I have slowly grown to love my limits; no restraint holds me back. In reality, I am supported, rooted as it were. I am not a hydroponic. I can live in the real world. I am me. Encouraged by the wind and the rain, I am not the hot house flower. I am truly free. I can walk where I was born to walk. I forget life has not been found outside my little world, and when it is, I’m still better off being me.


Introduce yourself to a new vegetable.


Sherrie

[Tommi]

Happy Annivesrary!!

I am so grateful for your sobriety and grateful, too for your participation on this thread. Congratulations on 32 continous years!!! I am looking forward to spending many, many more sober years with you. I love you, I am so glad we have today together to celibrate.

All my love,
sherrie

You made my day extra special My medallion is perfect, and the box you designed is beautiful, and well..two healthy cakes were wonderful. Having a partner in the program makes it ubbly doubly goood.
Always yours,
Tommi

Congrats Tommi! 32 years sober is an amazing feat. It's folks like you who give folks like me hope. Keep doing what you're doing. It's working..
Blessed be....

Happy Anniversary Tommi!!

January 7

HELP FROM STRANGE SOURCES


I can not get my mind wrapped around the places I find help. I struggle with believing I have been helped; I struggle with disbelief at my own resistance. I am helped daily by many tiny things seen and unseen. I realize now, I was injured by the same tiny things when I was misaligned with my Higher Power.
The sun rising, the tiny star I circle in this great nothingness, it makes my whole day. The air hanging around just in case I need it, which I often do. The people who live with me (a mean feat), work with me, those who exist here with me, keep my ship on course. How very sweet of them to do mostly right every day of their lives. What a help that is. The whole ecosystem and all the weather: what would I do without it? But this is on a good day.
On a bad day, the sun is in my eyes, scorching my skin. The air is too still or well, the wind is always a problem. And People, people are an endless plight. People do things to hurt, annoy and irritate me. Full intent, targeted to me, my life, my wants destroyed. Bugs seek me and I am followed by the darkest cloud, every day, all day lurking.
I am so thankful for a sponsor and a tenth step.


Name your tears; honor them for who they are



Sherrie

Thanks homeboi and ToughAsMarshmallow and thanks to you, LeftWriteFemme, for posting the daily inspirations from your book....

Tommi

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 15

NO MAPS



Maps have existed longer than I have. By the time of my birth, aerial photography had made pinpoint accuracy the norm. I can be tracked by satellite on my daily commute. I can get a Trip Tik and travel to the far reaches of this continent.
"So what’s your problem?” asks my sponsor.
There is no map for where we’ve been going. There are the twelve steps but after that, it is all uncharted territory, except, of course for my family’s warnings about dragons.
“Those critters stay to home mostly. You have bigger things to worry about.”
So, where’s the map? I need to know where to go.
“No map. We go through this together. The pitfalls are similar: sex and money. There are a few others. What each of us finds on this journey is unchartable, plus if you spend your time looking down, you will miss the view. We prop each other up as we step off into the unknown, and reel each other back if we start falling off the beam.”
How do I know if I’m doing it right?
“Are you still sober?”
Yes, but I’m unsure. Lots of people are sober right up until the time they’re drunk.
“So true. It’s all about motive, and it’s difficult to chart your heart. Do you have willingness?”
Yes, you know I do.
“I have found that is the vehicle to everywhere, Honey. Learn to enjoy the ride.”


Write silly verse.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 16

FEEDING SQUIRRELS ON A ONE LANE BRIDGE





Cattle corn spread on the single Lane Bridge---the trap. Food or safety? There are plenty of other choices; my disease sees none of them. Gluttony and danger the perfect combination. How can I resist? Why would I resist? I have to have more. I cannot depend on my nature, the ability God gave me to survive in my environs. Help must come from outside, and must be wild and dramatic. Inward help is boring, subtle, tiresome. Where’s my image? My excitement?
How am I going to prove my God worthy without too much, without perilous risk and rescue? I can’t. I can’t prove my God, and my God doesn’t need to prove anything to me. I can find my way, off the beaten path, away from the prying eyes of rubberneckers. No cheers from the crowd are necessary. I have the equipment. It came standard. If I look at the controls and follow the twelve step tutorial, I should be able to manage just fine. No Mack truck in my face, as I stuff myself with ill-gotten grain.


Look deeply into a glass of water searching for mermaids.


Sherrie

[Tommi]

January 16

FEEDING SQUIRRELS ON A ONE LANE BRIDGE





Cattle corn spread on the single Lane Bridge---the trap. Food or safety? There are plenty of other choices; my disease sees none of them. Gluttony and danger the perfect combination. How can I resist? Why would I resist? I have to have more. I cannot depend on my nature, the ability God gave me to survive in my environs. Help must come from outside, and must be wild and dramatic. Inward help is boring, subtle, tiresome. Where’s my image? My excitement?
How am I going to prove my God worthy without too much, without perilous risk and rescue? I can’t. I can’t prove my God, and my God doesn’t need to prove anything to me. I can find my way, off the beaten path, away from the prying eyes of rubberneckers. No cheers from the crowd are necessary. I have the equipment. It came standard. If I look at the controls and follow the twelve step tutorial, I should be able to manage just fine. No Mack truck in my face, as I stuff myself with ill-gotten grain.


Look deeply into a glass of water searching for mermaids.


Sherrie

I found candy corn as I slowed for the frozen road before my bridge, and stirred the mermaids with my mind in the bubble free 1/2 full glass of water.

Bubbling Diet Coke being my hardest drink for 32 years now, I may reach for the controls, but realize it is a virtual reality, and I need to let the HP glide me across the ice.

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 17

IN THE COMFORT OF MY ROOM



I sit and panic concerning the future. I have come through hell, built a safe and satisfying life, but it will all end soon. I can feel it. The tide rises in my soul, the blood red tide of self-doubt and degradation. I fail to see my strength, or intelligence. Hell, I can’t even remember the sheer willingness, which has carried me this far. All I see are shreds, tattered little bits of my hopes and dreams, scattered by the breeze of fate.
What is the point of me being in this sweet space if I’m going to intellectually turn it to a dungeon? Why set out fluffy pillows only to frighten myself daily with thoughts of their removal? How can I pray for safety and practice personal terrorism? With an open mind? No! My mind is closed to the double side of life. I know the destruction but forget the glory. I have washed ashore in the land of love and support. I need not drag my mind and spirit to the nether world of hopelessness. I’ve been to the dark places. My task is to warm in the sunlit today.


Make an anagram of your name, which empowers you.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

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.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 19

ROCK BOTTOM PRICES



Marble topped dressers, dry sinks and wardrobes, standing in the auctioneer’s warehouse, show loving use and obvious value. The hungry consumers peruse the merchandise looking for the perfect piece to fit their need. Old men eating ice cream sandwiches pick their way through the rows of tidbits laid out on the lawn, bargains to fill in odd spaces and little desires. So like our meeting places, where people try to refurnish their lives. The cost to arrive may have been high, but once in the market is more than fair. We reclaim relics and we use them as road signs and warnings. There is always someone around to carry large truths home and no one has to go away empty handed. We bid on our own survival by buying someone else a break. Time passes easily, as the one at the podium recounts the rock bottom prices.


Curl up inside the nautilus of your mind and take a nap.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 20

BECAUSE



Because I am my father’s child, I make my attendance at meetings frequent and regular. Having looked deeply in the genetic mirror, I see so many bitter days. I’ve run from the implications and sheltered in the steps. The humility that saved my life is the understanding I am no different from my family. And, since this is a progressive disease we all have, I will just get there faster. Knowing who I can be helps me turn my will over and keeps me grasping my Higher Power’s belt loop. All I am turns in every direction and can pull or push, lift or fall. I know my assets and I know their power and their limitations. All my hope is placed on a plan to use these resources. I follow the only lead which has never promised more than it can deliver.


Be your own loving parent.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 21

THE FROG



Stretched in the water, still, the frog hangs. The pond is barely a teacup, sufficient for the communion of God and frog. I watch the frog, unblinking , savoring respiration. In a pond in Maine, I bore this posture, center stage. A quarter mile of water all around, I hold my head above the surface and feel I am in the eye of God’s creation, face to face with benevolence. Peace spars with uneasy smallness. I am a tiny speck, floating in the soup; I am one organism in a sea teaming with life; I am a part of, not privileged but equal to the rest. Can I bear this reality, the struggle of living on a web? Can I live a humble life, knowing I am favored no more than the rest? Can I set aside my need for preferential treatment, a God-given Band-Aid for my multitude of hurt?
“If you can’t, you will drink," says my sponsor.
“If I have to live this way, I will cry,” I respond.
“That is your God-given right.”

Take someone else’s Higher Power out for a test drive.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 22

THE MUSIC




I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room. No, it’s coming from my head. It’s the sound of the music of my life. The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings. The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row. The lonely voice of resolve. The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night. I don’t try to part my lips. Replication is not yet a possibility. I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap. I cannot sing my song. I must let it live in me a while longer. I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill. Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin. I have to be fully me, to be full voiced. I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony. The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord.
Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth. I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living. Passion plays and calls my response. For today, I pass. I leave the song inside.


Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language.........Kindness


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 23

THE PROCESS


The mountains don’t wash away like sandcastles. The amount of persistence required is far greater. Acorns don’t work like sunflowers; not everything is instant gratification. Marathons aren’t run in seconds. If you don’t love the whole adventure, pick a smaller goal. There is no shame in sunflowers or sandcastles or microwave popcorn as long as you want it and hold it in esteem. Time-consuming, life-consuming journeys have a high price in boredom and are not worth the consumption if that is not where your heart leads you. You don’t have to love washing the pans to be a good baker but it helps. Peace is in the process.


Leave space on your plate for discussion.



Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 24

COMPOST



Looking at the bins, the stages of decomposition remind me of my disease, the stinking garbage I came in with. I have learned to work my program the same way I learned to tend my pile: personal experience, advice, watching and smelling the mistakes of others and myself. I learned that covering thoroughly with meetings and steps works like leaves and hay to eliminate the immediate stench. Circulation is important to prevent me from becoming stale. In the end, the secret is turning it over. If I don’t turn it over, I become putrid; I rot and ferment instead of decomposing, breaking down in a way which restores me to usefulness. When I work the process, my Higher Power turns me into a medium of growth, a renewed source of life and depth. I become rich in all the things that matter and sought after by all the people involved in planting seeds of hope.
My sponsor says it’s a sign of humility that I aspire to be like dirt, encouraging sprouts from the remnants of my past.
She might be right.


Speak from your heart, listen with your mind.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 25

LIFE AS AN ELM



I stand tall, my bark sloughing elongated rectangles. Great bunions of protruding wood, giant bubbles of tight grain grown in reactionary curls, these tumors born of abuse and endured in maturation are harvested in recovery. The burden of them is severed from me by the sharp teeth of truth. Sectioning these masses for purposes of inventory allows the twisted and deformed wood to become dry and constructive. I inlay the contorted sheets of history into the panels of the doors AA built for me, the doors built to exit hell, which gave me access to the world beyond.
I stand in the woods, reaching the sky, sinking deeply to the underlying springs, surrounded by the joys of reality, things unseen in my pain- consumed, blister-covered life of addiction. Life was a forest of one; the wind hit only me; the snow fell only on me; the drought affected only me. Today, lightened by the loss of my inappropriate growth, I grow together with my sponsor, my group, and the we. I can accept shade and shelter; also offer it. The bugs and parasites meet with the resistance of communal health, and my disease has no harbor, not in my bark, not in my heart. Today, my program strips me of my disabilities and makes me strong in camaraderie.


Cry just to water your face.



Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 26

BUTTON BOX





I go to my button box to sort out my life. I lay out matching sets, the various sizes, shapes and colors. Coat buttons are commanding but unsuitable for the delicate places. The tiny pearl buttons with shanks pull my attention but work well only on silk. The metal, shell, and horn buttons come from such far off places and all end up here crossing my table, as I try to see clearly how to stick with the winners.
I know the people represented in this box, the strong, the loud, the beautiful. I know the weak, the unique, the ones of special circumstances and occasion. I come to the realization the simple ones, the buttons sewn on the inside, the ones who silently give strength and support to the large and small alike, the ones which come in every shade and size, which match their ability to the service they can render others, these are my favorites. They make secure all the things I love and trust in sobriety. Flat and unobtrusive, these buttons hold fast the fabric of my life.


Name your pens and pencils.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 27

DEEP IN THE SEA




Under the mirror, there is a life. Under what I reflect to the world, I am a world apart. I smile sweetly, political in my response to confrontation and conflict. Deep, deep in the sea, is a current of sadness I can’t always shake. Pain is the past, but it’s there like a moray, lurking to strike aimlessly, pointlessly, at the passers-by. The ripping teeth and cold stare, my terror. No way to escape it, I focus on the topside, the reflective part of me. I keep the surface as clean and free as can be. I stick to my business, list goals and make plans. The water runs cold and then hot beneath. I carry the steps to this under-water grave, trying to inflate the rubber skin of god, but no. There is no life in the god of my understanding, or maybe there is no life for the character the drowned balloon represents. The sea is bigger than me, the life stronger and more abundant, the sky it reflects as vast as the liquid I swim. There is a Power and it doesn’t need that comic book face. Safety is not the requirement that can be granted. Lack of safety does not end my life. It does not end God.


Tear open your thoughts like a letter you read mostly between the lines.


Sherrie

[Tommi]

January 27

DEEP IN THE SEA




Under the mirror, there is a life. Under what I reflect to the world, I am a world apart. I smile sweetly, political in my response to confrontation and conflict. Deep, deep in the sea, is a current of sadness I can’t always shake. Pain is the past, but it’s there like a moray, lurking to strike aimlessly, pointlessly, at the passers-by. The ripping teeth and cold stare, my terror. No way to escape it, I focus on the topside, the reflective part of me. I keep the surface as clean and free as can be. I stick to my business, list goals and make plans. The water runs cold and then hot beneath. I carry the steps to this under-water grave, trying to inflate the rubber skin of god, but no. There is no life in the god of my understanding, or maybe there is no life for the character the drowned balloon represents. The sea is bigger than me, the life stronger and more abundant, the sky it reflects as vast as the liquid I swim. There is a Power and it doesn’t need that comic book face. Safety is not the requirement that can be granted. Lack of safety does not end my life. It does not end God.


Tear open your thoughts like a letter you read mostly between the lines.


Sherrie

This and button box are two of my favorites...Thanks for keeping the light on, and the wonderful books now available. I am enjoyng "My Sponsor Said", and can't wait to see the new "Sober on the Way to Sane."

You are a good example of what being in step with the program, and Letting Go Letting God is all about. All your hard work, sticking to it, and staying sober to share with others you meet along the way, is an inspiration.

I got my card and cake for celebrating 32 years at my home group Friday night, , what a sobering thought. Afterward, people came up to me that knew me in those wild and crazy years, and told me stories, that, well blackouts cover the sins of many things,..
one said, remember the parking lot behind the bar!..and remember when the police used to raid the Happy Hour Bar..Well, I smiled, and said ..glad you are here too...

[LeftWriteFemme]

This and button box are two of my favorites...Thanks for keeping the light on, and the wonderful books now available. I am enjoyng "My Sponsor Said", and can't wait to see the new "Sober on the Way to Sane."

You are a good example of what being in step with the program, and Letting Go Letting God is all about. All your hard work, sticking to it, and staying sober to share with others you meet along the way, is an inspiration.

I got my card and cake for celebrating 32 years at my home group Friday night, , what a sobering thought. Afterward, people came up to me that knew me in those wild and crazy years, and told me stories, that, well blackouts cover the sins of many things,..
one said, remember the parking lot behind the bar!..and remember when the police used to raid the Happy Hour Bar..Well, I smiled, and said ..glad you are here too...

This page is one of my favorites, too. I am so glad you like it.

Thank you for the appreciation and the support. This thread has brought so many wonderful things into my life, anything I can do to give back is my pleasure.

The running into people at meetings who know us from the past reminds me of the time I told my story and some guy came up to me after and said, "Your father wasn't a drug dealer, he was a good guy."
I asked him what made him say that and his response was that my father had all his hair.......to this day i still don't know why having all your hair makes you a good guy or disqualifies you from being a drug dealer. I mean really, I have met many drug dealers in the course of being raised in a house with one and there was not a bald one in the bunch.......but I digress.

I hope you have a wonderful day,

sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 28


AMENDS



Amends is about truth and change. The relationships of my past were places of little truth and even less change. I tried to be nice not honest; I tried to keep things going even when they needed to die. Making amends has ended most of my relationships from the past. A quick strong 10th step keeps me from starting too many new ones. Good healthy relationships require time and attention, so this necessitates a short list. Sometimes I wish for more quantity, but I realize in sobriety I cannot accept less quality.


Tie your shoes with humor.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 29

MY MOTHER’S FACE



The way that age pours down my mother's face when she is sad reminds me that grief runs through my blood. Generation after generation has been transfused with anxious woe. Heartbreak vexes minds full of fear. There is no easy way to round the bend on sharp pointed issues; the route is circuitous. I battle the chaotic thinking to fight my way back to a place where my mother’s eyes sparkle as they squint closed with her smile. The war of peace is not easily won by contemporaries. We must close ranks between the ages to keep the joy from sheeting off our skin and keep the sadness in proportion. Restore us to our possible bliss; we can overtake ecstasy from there.


Build ladders for the boxes that confine you.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 30

NURSE




What if the word God is like the word nurse? What if the person is only the simple meaning? The actor doing the service, the plain act, uncontrollable from my end. What if my active part of God is the same as my active part of nurse? What I draw down how I schedule myself to be ready when the milk arrives? How I pull and am satisfied, digest and draw again, like the sea laps at the shore, the moon tugging it all the while. What if God is about my hunger, satisfaction dependant on finding a suitable teat?
Maybe this is why, when it comes to God, much of what I do is cry. When faced with my need, I open my mouth, finding only two possible responses: suck or scream. My aching consumes me and I don’t know how to calm myself. I look for the caretaker, the person, the deed. I need succor, but never look for the breast. I am the child of God; I must learn to draw God in.


Paint a picture of life after expectation.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

January 31

TRUST




My sponsor always says, “you can trust people to be who they are.” I am a different being in relationship to different people. To some, I am the center of their constellation, the sun burning bright; I’m all they can see. To others, I am the moon, orbiting them, silent and dedicated. With another group, I am a comet streaking through the sky, seldom seen but well remembered. For many, I am a distant star, one among the multitude, blending in the night with the other signs. Then, there are the folks who see me in a more down to earth way. I am the dirt beneath their feet. The farmers see me as a plant to be tended. The cowboys view me as a horse to be broken. To fishermen, I’m a catch. I am what people want to see, so what can I trust them to be? Wrapped in their own worlds? Yes, mostly, I guess. None of my business in the end. I watch them and learn what I want to do, who I want to be, in large part, by avoiding what I see them do. I do trust people to serve as bad examples often and good ones infrequently, and for each of them to see me through their own filter, if they see me at all. From me, they can expect the same.


Find a corner, then pitch a tent.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 1

WHEN I WAS YOUNG



I’m sure it will come soon, a time I can be a carefree innocent. Worn and weary, I slog through the painful over-awareness of what was considered my childhood. What can I do but hope things will get simpler as I age? My sobriety takes years from my face; lines slip from me and I feel the weight lift from my shoulders. My tender branches, twisted with the constant force of wind, bud and flower in the shelter of recovery, holding themselves in their own embrace. Colors seep to the windows of my mind, form pictures and carry me to a new world. Through limpid pools I dive as I look to the mirror. Serenity, a rebounding of life fills me, and I am the gentle girl I missed so long. Longing for my loveliness, I cry at the sight of my baby one. I have not yet taken my place on the swing but I have been down to the edge of the playground and run barefoot in the sand. I will be who I was to be; it’s late but it’s better. I know well enough to enjoy it as it comes, treasure it for every sweetness. I will come into my youth.


Listen for a bridge that calls your name.


Sherrie

[Tommi]

Gooood morning, and great inspiration for today sherrie.


HAPPPppppy February to everyone.

Deep in winter,
Deep in snow,
Underneath hard earth
Green buds glow..

Spring is coming...really

[lucidflame]

Speaking of inspiration... I liked the link to your newest publication!

[Onyxena]

Happy February everyone! I am thankful for my higher power and another day sober!

[Tommi]

Happy February everyone! I am thankful for my higher power and another day sober!

Yep Onyxena~~ and I will be celebrating the Steelers , sober a t aSuper Bowl party today.

Speaking of inspiration... I liked the link to your newest publication!

Yes, a true inspiration .

[LeftWriteFemme]

Speaking of inspiration... I liked the link to your newest publication!

It took all the bravery I have to create that link, but I think it was the right thing to do. I have got to stop being so shy about my writing. I have 14 books up on Amazon.com but I never tell anyone about them..........I wouldn't let my sponsees get away with that behavior, so I have to stop hiding my work.

Thanks for being there and encouraging me.

Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 2

THE DIFFERENCE





Falling and flying are the same, save the landing. No matter what you do in the air, how well or how poorly, in the end, if you don’t land it, it’s a fall and if you do, a flight. How we begin seems of ultimate importance but is seen as a farce in the face of ruin. The most promising of starts can be sucked groundward, compass and instrumentation rendered useless, through a lack of humility. Piteous starts, starts without plan or goal are viewed as triumphs when safety has been captured from defeat. Willingness is my aileron. It contributes to my lift in ways I cannot explain, smoothes the gusts of life which forever blow in my face, and willingness brings the ground up to meet me. All I have to do is be willing and stick out my feet.


Use all your words.


Sherrie

[LeftWriteFemme]

February 3

AND THIS IS FOR WHAT?




I smiled down on God and said, “This is pretty and what is it for?”
“Oh, that’s your life. It is a surprisingly useful thing to have.” My Higher Power, like my sponsor, thinks she is funny but she is not.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Who do you think I am, your mother, your Grandpa Joe, your guidance counselor? I put all the possibilities in you then I let the wind blow. What would be the fun of coming here if I gave it to you all mapped out? Did it occur to you the reason people say ‘you are right where you are supposed to be’ is because you did the things that brought you here, not Me, and if you don’t like it here you are the one who needs the motivation to change it.”
“Take my life............Please.”
“You are such a comedian!”
“No, that’s your department, and could you stop tending your garden for five minutes and give me your attention?”
“I don’t need to give you that kind of attention. You bloom on your own.”

Age with curiosity.


Sherrie