The bottom has been cut out, my underpinnings stripped from me. Budding ambition whittled down, transplanted, saddled onto the rock like stock of other people’s sobriety. Taped to the leg of my sponsor I heal and grow. I splice my thinking with the rich ideas of improved living. I cling to the cleft; divisions made from the people, places and things of my past leave me split, primed for fresh growth and opportunity. Never again do I need return to the sordid acquisition of power or control. There is no gain when I am bolted to position and influence. Graft is graft for good or bad. I don’t have to grow where I was planted.
Subtract your assets from your defects.
This week I have decided to be braver
about where I invest my time, not all of it mind you
but a portion of my diligent yet strangely unproductive time.
I have to say I am realizing that I hide
in pretty much every area of my life
and that is no way to live
and a really bad example to offer.
The worst thing about hiding is it doesn’t keep me safe;
it just subjects me to different evils.
It reminds me of that poor reporter
who was imbedded in a tank.
He died from not moving, his blood pooling and dehydration,
so the tank kept him from getting his head shot off,
but killed him in a different way,
so in the end he wasn’t safe and neither am I.
I believe in prudence as a good policy, I do,
but there is much that could make me
stronger, happier, better,
if I lift my head a bit and reach out my hand.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault