The ebb, the flow
a rip, a current.
Stark contrast living among deep unity.
If I could see the trees ache.
I would anguish for them.
But, as is the forever case…I am too late.
Misery has arrived and there is no place to hide from it.
Sadness…laying there on the backs of all that has fallen.
Playing with the idea that my help would do some good.
In the stillness of a chirping chorus…
the bleakness of human stampede…
In this earth, of this earth…
I would be mistaken to believe.
Believe I can hasten the bitter and sweet…
The very hour I first…believed, recovery was possible?
Seven o’clock, Tuesday night…1995!
The plane, the plane, flew overhead. As the prodigies from Farnum Rehab Center, made their way to church! A building devoted to keeping AA groups in the basement. In case, life and sobriety got out of hand.
What a wonderfully, large, smoking meeting! I remember it as though, it had been the beginning of my climbing the ladder out of…rock bottom.
The plane, the plane, flew a flyer behind it. Bright red, blue and sparkle-full!
‘We Can Help!’
Had been all it said.
Course, it had been an advertisement for a local car dealership.
That did not matter.
It had been a revelation for a bleeding from the heart, addict.
“It’s like there’s this wave coming toward me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And then it reaches me, crashes over me and…and I’m done for another day. I just give up. Give in to it. Because how do you stop a wave?
You don’t. And you’re wise to recognize your powerlessness to do so. But what you can do is learn how to negotiate this wave. Work within the context of its inevitability.” Wally Lamb
My only stint in rehab…required going to ‘detox’ first. At Sobriety Maintenance, of which I got a degree that could not compare to any others I had, there were many life experiences…Many that cannot be replaced. That, in truth, I had been schooled…to which I always thought,
‘You can’t con a con!’
But it did happen.
I learned how to play Spades, cigarette a point Cribbage, clean bathroom stalls, and, enjoy decaf coffee.
The lesson I keep with me everyday…but occasionally loose during, life on life’s terms? The Precious Present! An aged cook from the Marines ran the kitchen at the detox. His name had been Jamie. Jamie witnessed my struggles with self. My need to put on the facade of ‘I am ten foot tall and bullet proof.’
I liked him but balked his every attempt to tame my unruliness. That is until I found the ‘Precious Present’ at my table setting…
Once there was a boy. . . . Who listened to an old man. And, thus, he began to learn about The Precious Present. “It is a present because it is a gift,” the contented man explained. “And it is precious because anyone who receives such a present is happy forever.”
“Wow!” the little boy exclaimed. “I hope someone gives me The Precious Present. Maybe I’ll get it for Christmas.” The boy ran off to play. And the old man smiled. He liked to watch the little boy play. He saw the smile on the youngster’s face and heard him laughing as he swung from a nearby tree. The boy was happy. And it was a joy to see.
The old man also liked to watch the boy work. He even rose early on Saturday mornings to watch the little laborer mow the lawn across the street. The boy actually whistled while he worked. The little child was happy no matter what he was doing. It was, indeed, a joy to behold.
When he thought about what the old man had said, the boy thought he understood. He knew about presents. Like the bicycle he got for his birthday and the gifts he found under the tree on Christmas morning. But as the boy thought more about it, he knew. The joy of toys never lasts forever.
The boy began to feel uneasy. “What then,” he wondered, “is The Precious Present? What could possibly make me happy forever?” He found it difficult to even imagine the answer. And so he returned to ask the old man.
“Is the Present a magical ring? One that I might put on my finger and make all my wishes come true?”
“No,” the old man said. “The precious present has nothing to do with wishing.”
As the boy grew older he continued to wonder. He went to the old man. “Is the Precious Present a flying carpet?” he inquired. “One that I could get on and go any place that I like?”
“No,” the man quietly replied. “When you have the precious present, you will be perfectly content to be where you are.”
The boy was becoming a young man now, and felt a bit foolish for asking. But he was uncomfortable. He began to see that he was not achieving what he wanted. “Is the Precious Present,” he slowly ventured, “a sunken treasure? Perhaps rare gold coins buried by pirates long ago?”
“No, young man,” the old man told him. “It is not. The richness is rare, indeed, but the wealth of the Present comes only from itself.”
In dark crevices of the mind…
speculation, disclosed images, we would rather not find.
Granted, serenity, is just a visual aid.
Perfect pictures of plans made.
Momentary lapses of chips falling where they may.
Sometimes, when waltzing by my inner sanctum.
I witness a world poised in the need to forever look down.
Struck by honesty that only an overhead light can bring.
The ‘all better letter’ will never arrive.
Akin to searching for truth from an abandoned building.
In the asunder, bricks of malice.
Serenity in the shell of recovering.
One day at a time.
One hour at a time.
#NH addiction hotline-1-844-711-HELP (4357)
People who sacrifice beauty for efficiency get what they deserve. Tom Robbins
Why is it…
wait…waits until the last minute?
This above all…has been on my mind since the drought.
Afraid to ask…
the word, ‘HELP’
keeps creeping out.
‘Let me out!’
Wait…hurry up and wait.
Well, the humid air…waits for no one.
I say, again, again and, again.
Peppered storm clouds…in due time will satiate.
But, wait, maybe, they have arrive too late.
The rain is in my blood.
My blood is in the rain.
There is always…downtime, downfall to the pain.
Come down from your fence…
Put a halt to the salt in the waiting wounds.
Time wasted…will be upon us soon.
I guess we are all slave to the wait…
The waiting…until it is too late.