Slave, or Free?

There will never be
the time
for the time that you must
make. 
There will never be
the day
unless the day you simply
take. 

The Free

Fragile, so fragile

are butterfly's wings!

Of Love's tender freedom

they airily sing,

eluding capture by the

coarsened hand --

Beauty resisting beast's

jealous command. 

The Precious

Butterfly, flee --

escape the net

of those who would dissect you

without regret.

Prisoner's Plea

Truth is a prisoner

in iron chains

loosened little by little

through backbreaking pains.

Pride, reluctance,

shame, and fear

conspire to shackle

with threats austere

Truth's plea for release,

for honesty sweet --

lost sheep safely nestled

at Jesus' feet.

Insidious Counting (One Christian's Perspective)

If life is truly to be taken "one day at a time," and "all we have is today," why would a recovering alcoholic ever be encouraged to count, one by one, his accumulating sober days?

The counting of sober days is potential temptation and punishment rolled into one!

Counting sober days risks making the recovering alcoholic a veritable slave to his own accrued sober time, to the external appearance of well-being, and, possibly, to an insidious pride in his sober time.  God, however, does not want us slaves, but free.  He does not want us to get ourselves puffed up, however subtly, only to become enslaved to appearance or pretense.  Perhaps this is why those who do "go out" to drink again -- and who survive the experience -- appear so much calmer, clearer, and relieved upon their return to sobriety.  They may have hurt themselves in one way, but they have also reasserted their freedom under God and restored their own humility.

Recovering alcoholics are encouraged to "keep it simple" while, paradoxically, engaging in the scrupulous practice of counting every single day of sobriety, so that they may "earn" their "celebrations" for "x" amount of time sober and remain grateful for the gift of sobriety.  But scrupulosity in any form is normally considered to be a spiritual affliction, a psychological burden.  Counting sober days contradicts the very essence of any program which stresses the importance of "one day at a time," "living just for today," leading a balanced life, and, overall, "keeping it simple."

Counting sober days, in short, is all sorts of spiritual trouble -- the root of which is pride and the fruit of which can be lies.  The practice of religiously counting sober days is therefore dangerous to a recovering alcoholic's sobriety.

"Attending" recovery meetings for 90 days, after all, is quite different from feeling compelled to "get" 90 days sober.  A free man "attends."  If he stumbles, drinks, and survives, he simply picks himself up again.  In reality, no one who drinks on day 89 of his sobriety actually loses his previous 88 sober days!  Yet, despite those 88 genuinely sober days, the recovering alcoholic who drinks on day 89 must typically begin counting his sober days all over again after his fall -- no official group acknowledgment will be forthcoming for that comprehensive string of 88 consecutive sober days.  That string of 88 sober days is effectively erased.  This erasure, however, is a lie.  The consequences of this lie can be far worse than any mere withholding of celebration.  It is a lie which has the ugly effect of also discrediting, to a greater or lesser extent, the whole person who has "slipped."  To complete the lamentable picture, lies and distortions of any sort feed into the spiritual part of the disease of alcoholism.

So why, the question begs to be asked, should any "returning" recovering alcoholic bear the degradation of appearing to have lost his truly sober time  -- through the rigid, scrupulous, and potentially punishing practice of counting sober days?  This practice actually becomes a controlling mechanism which treats an adult like a child, then punishes a "fall" -- the act of drinking -- with the lie of sober-time erasure.  This erasure of "accrued sober time" often effectively exaggerates the actual amount of so-called "lost" sober time.  For instance, in the case of a very brief foray back into drinking, the comparatively short time spent on drinking assumes a much greater weight than all the sober days that preceded it:  If a recovering alcoholic drinks on even just one day -- say, day 89 -- he "loses" the entire string of his 88 prior sober days.  And this insult to his reason and dignity comes after the very practice of counting sober days has possibly helped to tempt his fall in the first place!

How might the practice of counting sober days actually tempt a recovering alcoholic to drink?  It might tempt him to drink by virtue of the very detail noted above:  by treating him like a child.  Children, after all, lose potential rewards when they disobey . . . . .  The counting of sober days having become a control mechanism (which the recovering alcoholic then obediently inflicts upon himself), it also becomes a potentially shaming mechanism under the surface -- despite group encouragement to "keep coming back" after a "slip."  A control mechanism, in turn, devalues both human dignity and free will.

Something deep within an adult human being may understandably revolt against this degrading treatment of his humanity . . . and he may wish, legitimately, to say "no" to it -- perhaps without even realizing exactly what is rankling him, but reacting from instinct alone.  What a shame (or, perhaps, a tragedy) if a recovering alcoholic were to say his first, bewildered "no" to this dehumanizing approach with a drink. 

May others say "no" for him, preferably BEFORE THIS HAPPENS -- by discouraging the destructive and obsessive practice of religiously counting every single sober day.

God bestows the gift of free will on each of us.  If people are truly "free" to believe in Him in a recovery program, then they must also be "free" to be free (!) -- which always must include the freedom to make reasonable exceptions, in charity and prudence, even to the most so-called popular or "proven" methodology.

The counting of sober days enables fortunate souls to celebrate various segments of their sober time, but perhaps at the high, high cost of grinding other, less fortunate souls into an early grave under the punitive cloud of perceived -- and exaggerated -- failure.  For the returning alcoholic who has had a drinking "slip," the hard message between the lines is that there is no real forgiveness or "mercy" built into the mechanics of such a program.  Furthermore, there will be no accompanying count of "successfully sober days" to boost, rationally and realistically, the returning alcoholic's true "sobriety average."

In the operating mechanics of such a program, the recovering alcoholic's "slip" erases his prior history of integrity and perseverance, and he is "bumped" back to "Start."  

Making a fresh spiritual beginning with each new dawn is one thing.  Erasing history, however, is quite another.

Not Enough

It is not enough

to be genuinely oneself

where methodology has become

a god,

where people must prove themselves

sufficiently skilled in serving

him above all.

No, a simply honest man

will never be quite trusted

there,

for his very freedom

disqualifies him.

Locks Declined

Trust is not mere feeling,

passive plunging down a hill.

Trust is a decision of

"I want to and I will."

Trust is not a guarantee

the other will come through.

Trust is love enough to say,

"I choose to believe in you."
The lock serves well in hostile zones,
accompanied by key,
but trust posts love as sentry,
preferring to be free. 

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)

Invisible Chains

Under the roof of an unjust man,

peace is shackled,

hostage to the whims

of an unguarded

conscience.

Native Hunger

There is something up there,
out in the open,

beyond the lies and evasions

and the million little cowardices of man;

and the ravenous hunger draws me

away from walls and ceilings and doors

to the 

great Out There,

where freedom is a garment 

I can feel

blowing against my arms,

whipping back and forth in the wind,

widening my eyes

from tunnels to skies . . .

and I try to remember

this feeling of Free,

so that I can bring it back with me

inside the walls and ceilings and doors

and never lose me

again. 

A Free Spirit

As understanding begins to dawn,

hurts fall away.

In their place is a heart swept clean

of bitter debris,

a mind cleared of clutter,

an open spirit

willing to listen.

As someone has done for me,

so can I do for another,

and I am that much

freer.

Wings

Freed by a spontaneous act of love, the Magdalene burst out of her cage.  The men, still fettered by concerns of propriety ("wrong kind of woman") and economics ("wasting expensive oil"), wanted to put her right back in . . . . .

But Our Lord wouldn't hear of it.

Liquid Relief (Amidst the Emotionally "Dry")

House empty

and out it comes:

The trunk of tears,

filled to the brim

like a portable bathtub,

locked with a key

so the pain doesn't

spill out the sides and

      trickle

          down

               the 
                   stairway, 

leaving a salt trail

back to the brimming eyes

and the beating heart

and the empty tissue box

and the hand with the key

which must, at all costs,

lock and hide the trunk

sloshing with drowned hopes and hidden woes

before it drenches the closet

and the bedroom,

bursting like a torrent

through the upper rails,

deluging the household,
swamping the yard,

and betraying the owner of trunk and tears

while alerting all local humanity

that the emotional life

really should not have to be

stored in a trunk.

Dignity

There is a lie afoot

that, having once been vanquished

and dehumanized,

we remain blinded, malformed puppets

in all things.

True, the seared wounds

burn and bleed,

arresting forward motion

in the afflicted parts,

but the pulsing mind still

contacts truth,

observing and measuring

the real.

More than the burn,

more than the bleed,

more than the brokenness

of pain swelling, splitting, cracking the very shell

of what we were,

fear far more, instead,

those who

dehumanize the dehumanized,

cripple the cripple,

and step into the scarred chambers

of the heart

as though into a nursery,

wallpapering fairy tales

where Christ already

imprinted His cross.

Stepping Out

Emotional recovery, it seems, is often launched when one cares enough to ask what happened to other people.

~ Obstacles cleared, healing won't brook waiting.  Nature billows forth, and the truth has rights of its own. ~

Native Child

Graceful child of the wind,

What makes you dance?

Do you hear His heartbeat

In the breeze?

Gentle child of the rain,

What makes you laugh?

Do His sweet baby footsteps

Pitter-patter with each drop?

Joyful child of the sun,

What makes you smile?

Does the warmth of His Mother

Enfold you from the clouds?

Precious child of the snow,

How sparkling are your dreams!

Do the angels go "swish-swish" with you

When you make "wings" facing Heaven?

Loving child of my heart,

Sunflower bright,

Seedling bursting into life,

Song sung for the very first time . . . . . 

Like the wind, like the rain,

Like the sun, like the snow,

May you stir always to His rhythms,

His sparkle,

His Love.