THE WAY I DO IT
Cooking by smell, parking by ear, recovering by touch. The latter has to be done this way; I cannot see into the black-box technology, which keeps me sober. Feel through the resentments, pain, sadness, joy; find myself under a pile of rags with a match in my hand. The many times the steps have saved me from becoming a human torch are balanced by the weight of the rope, woven from these same rags, that together we use to drag one another to safety. The savory scent of a meal, or the glee of front row parking can’t compare with the tender sense of a sober heart.
Write bad advice on tissue and wipe with it.
I was taught that it was my job to master fear;
raised in a religion swearing they could master death.
I used to spend all I had trying to create a master plan,
while trying to keep secure using a Master lock.
I have seen Master & Commander
and do not long for that burden;
in fact mastery is so much a snare and illusion.
Life is quite improved
when we each have an oar and we all row on.