“Why do I expect new leaves to grow on dead sticks?” I pleaded to my sponsor.
“Is that a ‘why do fools fall in love’, question?” she retorted.
“Oh, I suppose it is. I was doing so well having a ‘listen only’ relationship with someone then she asked why I don’t tell her my opinion and I like a ‘fool’ I told her. The ensuing pile of rationalizing and justifying she gave stank up my whole day.”
“I bet your steady stream of self reproach didn’t help either,” my sponsor added.
“But, I know better!” I cried. “I mean this is why I stopped my speaking role with this girl. I know she is a reactor NOT a listener. How could I fall apart at her first recognition that I am wordless in the face of her diatribes?”
“You were hopeful. Is that such a crime? You think better of people than they really are. I think that helps you stay willing to help them,” she soothed.
“Yes, but this snapped my willingness to work with her in half. How do I put it back together?”
“Maybe you needed to learn that it’s okay to leave the dead sticks behind.”
Why do turnips look like tops and turnip tops look like greens?
Looking at the bins
The stages of decomposition
Remind me of my disease
The stinking garbage I came in with.
I have learned to work my program
the same way I learned to tend my pile
Personal experience, advice, watching
and smelling, the mistakes of myself and others.
I learned covering thoroughly with meetings
And steps works like leaves and hay
to eliminate the immediate stench.
Circulation is important to prevent me from becoming stale.
In the end, the secret is turning it over.
If I don’t turn it over I become putrid.
I rot and ferment instead of decomposing,
breaking down in a way which restores me to usefulness.
When I work the process
my higher Power turns me into a medium of growth.
A renewed source of life and depth.
I become rich in all things that matter.
I am sought after by all the people involved
In planting seeds of hope.
My sponsor says, “It’s a sign of humility
that I aspire to be like dirt.”
from the remnants
of my past.
She might be right
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault