Stretching is not equivalent to change. Limbering is nice and warms the muscles, body and soul. Over-reaching, over-compensation is trauma; it distorts the symmetry and breeds erroneous thinking. Extension beyond the bounds sets me up for a fall. I misinterpret touching with fingertips with a firm and able grasp. I don’t step forward because I believe I have a hand on things, failing to see how this is different from an embrace. The sinew tears and the fabric of my life is destroyed. I lean forward but I go nowhere.
Open an old letter and read it with a fresh mind.
My disease paid a discourtesy call on my bourgeoning sobriety.
Peeked in to look for cracks in my foundation,
weaknesses to exploit.
I recognized the patch job I had toyed with
would have made the easiest of targets for this eroding thug.
I am ever so grateful that I cleaned off all the bricks
and made new mortar.
Built on bedrock my re-laid block
will withstand the indignity of the pounding prodding sickness
which used to inhabit this once dilapidated space.
I can keep the villain at bay
and live my cozy life thanks to a true level
and the handsome turn of my trowel.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault