Home cooking is the key. I want to order in, have my life delivered to the door. The takeout menus entice me. From three courses on china to burgers handed through sliding windows, it all sounds good and I request all for take home. But this is not the way. I must light the flame and chop the veg. I can’t have a life prepared by others. I can share recipes and suggestions; this is help not displacement. I can stand and cook with others and together make the feast. I cannot sit and wait to be served. I stand at the range while the sauce simmers and it comes clear; I am my own meal.
Nothingness won’t necessarily consume you but it does block the view.
I wake early and watch the lazy rain
fall in slow fat random drops.
I view it with silent awe,
only part of my recently somnolent mind bewildered.
Dawn advances toward me and I register a new concept:
snow, it is snow; the sky had been,
too dark to allow me to see the white,
all I could comprehend was the fall.
The lighter the sky becomes
the more the precipitation behaves like snowfall.
I muse this to my sponsor and she laughed,
“Well, we all misname things in the dark,
Sweetie, lighten up and give yourself a break.”
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault