THE WAY I DO IT
Cooking by smell, parking by ear, recovering by touch. The latter has to be done this way; I cannot see into the black-box technology, which keeps me sober. Feel through the resentments, pain, sadness, joy; find myself under a pile of rags with a match in my hand. The many times the steps have saved me from becoming a human torch are balanced by the weight of the rope, woven from these same rags, that together we use to drag one another to safety. The savory scent of a meal, or the glee of front row parking can’t compare with the tender sense of a sober heart.
Write bad advice on tissue and wipe with it.
I was taught that it was my job to master fear;
raised in a religion swearing they could master death.
I used to spend all I had trying to create a master plan,
while trying to keep secure using a Master lock.
I have seen Master & Commander
and do not long for that burden;
in fact mastery is so much a snare and illusion.
Life is quite improved
when we each have an oar and we all row on.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault