“Sometimes a dish is just a dish,” I said to my sponsor.
“Yes and sometimes it is the world away, which you hold in your hand,” her reply.
I stand at the sink and try to wash the dishes when I am washing the dishes. I try to drive the car when I drive the car. These simple acts of concentration, focus and sooth the jagged mental sutures where I am supposed to be coming together, but ultimately come apart. Anything to break my frenetic gyrations is a blessing, anything to cut away to a closer view and a clearer understanding of where I really am; anything to derail the speeding blur of a life of my creation is good. What I do and who I am are secrets and mysteries when I don’t know how to pay attention and ironies when I do. And if you doubt me, just go ask Arnold.
Blue crows streak across my dreaming minds sky
They take up their post in a line of trees
I stand at the edge of a burning field
I feel nauseous at the thought of glorifying an ‘active’ life.
Everything is burned, scared and crumpled
The flashy crows call from the hedgerow.
I know it’s time to fly
The fire is out and I have work to do.
To keep the sparks and dormant embers from ruining another harvest.
I must travel with these strange birds
And live an odd but regimented life
I needn’t scorch my feet on this ground again.
Like my companions I must spend sometime in survey
If I do not fully assess this damage
I might not fully embrace this dawn.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault