Green and black, pinwheels of rolled grass speed by me on a flatbed. Sod headed for home. That is how it is for me. I grew in a place of impermanence, a place clearly not my destination. Uprooted and prepared for relocation, I am in transition. My future surroundings, unknown, will be a perfect fit. I have been anticipated, grown for a purpose, of which I am uninformed. I have done my part. I am ready to lay down my roots and become a lawn of seamless expanse. Somewhere my Higher Power is grading a hill, smoothing the way. I am ready to take my place in the landscape of sober living and right thinking.
Advocate for the sweetness inside you.
Ham is cured.
Thank God I’m not ham.
Ham likes to be the center of attention.
Thank God, I’m not ham.
I can’t be the worker among workers
if I believe I don’t need to work.
I can’t be a friend among friends
if I am an island or a precipice,
above or away from the need or reach of others.
Cured is a one way street
that leads to a dried up lonely end.
Just the same way that turning my cucumber
into a pickle took me out of the garden,
Curing takes me away
from the only home I know, recovery.
Though I am often raw and sometimes fresh,
these I can survive,
Finished due to the drying out process
that would be a living death.
Thank God I’m not cured.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault