The bedpan of spirituality was shoved under my ass in early sobriety. It kept me from increasing the mess with which I surround myself. The cold smack of enamel got my attention. The old timers showed me there is a place for my shit; it was not any of the places I had been using. Discretion is the better part of everything. I needn’t show my backside everywhere I go. My side, your side, all sides were strewn with my waste. Fragments, tatters and fearful reminders were all there for me to clean up. Amends as the shovel and willingness as its handle are what I use to clear my past. Sweat is refreshing when progress is being made. I’ve made inroads; paths of travel help me move easily from the past to the present without regret.
Write directions to your heart.
“Sometimes a dish is just a dish,” I said to my sponsor.
“Yes and sometimes it is the world away,
which you hold in your hand,” her reply.
I stand at the sink and try to wash the dishes
when I am washing the dishes.
I try to drive the car when I drive the car.
These simple acts of concentration
focus and sooth the jagged mental sutures
where I am supposed to be coming together,
but ultimately come apart.
Anything to break my frenetic gyrations is a blessing,
anything to cut away to a closer view
and a clearer understanding of where I really am;
Anything to derail the speeding blur
of a life of my creation, is good.
What I do and who I am are secrets and mysteries
when I don’t know how to pay attention
and ironies when I do.
And if you doubt me, just go ask Arnold.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault