Too often, I have lifted the edge of the lawn in an attempt to join the worms for a bit of a dirt nap. Or I crawled into a self-constructed cave to bear my feelings and hibernate from life. The times I sprint with the deer, jumping the fences in hopes of escaping the wolves, these are all the times when I forget who I am. I forget to ask direction, fail to make a meeting. Seeing those of my ilk puts my feet on the ground, focuses my perspective on just what sort of creature I am. I can’t always follow my instincts when I don’t know who I am. I can’t see myself until I stand next to you.
Relax one toe at a time.
Like a faithful dog that was hard to train,
patience is a thing hoped for
yet peevish during the breaking in.
Stanch companionability is hard won,
but worth the cost of acquisition.
And what is the price I truly paid in the end;
whatever I gave in the pursuit of patience
was a cheap babysitter
and kept me from far worse reformation.
For what would I do in this late day and age
as a tempest torn toddler,
no bottle to sooth my woes and bothers.
Strictly speaking this is a world ill suited
to the edgy intolerant masses
and only seems to fit those who can mark time and bend.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault