LEAVES IN A PILE
As a great pile of dry leaves, lay the problem. Running through it to show my disrespect accomplishes nothing but to scatter my dilemma and widen the area of distress. Covering and composting only allows the burden to indwell, leaching into that which feeds my soul. Burning puts it in the air I breathe. There is no galaxy far off enough to keep its reflection from my face. Attack, flight, banishment? No! Insulation, conversion, contortion? No! I pursue none of these; I can not control things exterior. I can not feed my power, light and life into the pile. I have only one goal: not to become the problem. Not to dry or dehydrate. Not to fall from my hope and collect in the road. My goal is to hold fast to hope and serve as conduit and companion to a life bigger than mine alone.
Practice little words like ‘oh’, and ‘hum’
I have dug myself a trench
and invited my friends and family.
Truth is, I drug many and tricked others
and there they are in the trench
I have so recently climbed out of.
It is a nasty place and I feel horribly responsible,
but here is the sacred truth;
I can’t climb down there again,
not even on a rescue mission.
I am obligated to help them, this is for sure,
but the fact still remains that it is not safe
to get into the water with a drowning person,
even if I am the one who caused the drowning.
If I am to be of any help at all I must get my footing
and keep it safely on the bank
and only then might I be able to throw down a rope
or lend a hand to anyone, especially those I love.
I pray for the sturdy stance of helpful strangers
and try my best to cause no further harm,
more than that will have to wait
until my cleats are soundly lodged into the earth
and my head is squarely upon my shoulders,
for headlong and mud covered I am no help.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault