Always

Love there is and will be --
breezy voice of the sea
sings songs that thou
mayst peaceful be;
that rocks may hold fast
through breaking waves,
outlasting cool hearts
and scheming knaves;
water's arms reaching out
not to crush thee, but to buoy
and transport thee
to fields of joy.

Song of the Soul

Something was lost in the cracks

(my trust in truth) --

and I must pull up the floorboards 

in search of it,

for the music calls . . . . .

Crushed underfoot,

I crawl,

hands patting the ground for rocks and

splinters --

but if knees will get me there,

I'll go,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Head throbbing,

heart sobbing,

I clutch pieces of reality shattered --

with these I will build,

for the music calls . . . . . 

Memory sleeping,

only fragments awake --

they keep watch through the dream-infested night,

awaiting first birdsong,

for the music calls . . . . .

Raw-kneed, I shiver,

my hands, how they quiver . . . . .  

But -- listen! 

The music calls.

Incense Rising

When people do not care

as we wish they would,

there is nothing to do,

nowhere to go

to escape the empty void

of hopes gone up in smoke.

We must simply stand there --

no use flinching --

and let the void shower its nothingness upon us,

the scent of charred dreams

heart's incense rising to Heaven

with the mute prayer,

"Please, let this not happen again."

And, somehow,
in that mysterious place
between incense and ashes,
we begin to
survive.

When Words Shine

Chain of words,
the finest thread,
repartee woven
between heart and head.

Chain of words,
all links secure,
lifeline extended
that hope may endure.

Chain of words,
reflector of light, 

stalwart companion 

in thick of night.

Chain of words,

strong hand to grasp

in the tear-stained journey

toward Truth at last.

Truth's Fire

"No words for you,"

reports the wind. 

Thank you," nod I,

my trust undimmed.

"What keeps you steady?"

wind asks anxiously.

"A light burns afar," say I,

for the words that will be."

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.

When

Hope . . .

such a precious thing

when the waves of suffering

crash over one's head.

Hope.

Noon Sun

Friend arrived with noon --

spritz of light from the East.

We strolled down the road and had us a feast

of words and laughter and common ground,

roots of likeness struck deeply, still new ones found.

Friend left again but the glow remains

to rekindle life's fire when spirit wanes.

Fragrance Sweet

Beautiful music

performed by friends --

fragrant oil on the raw wound

when nothing else will do,
assuring me that

I, too,

will sing again.

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.)

Onward!

And the sun triumphs again,

rays beaming,

wind rippling,

nature pulsing

with the heartbeat of life

unconquered.

Choosing Life

Energy holding back energy,

consuming itself --
reaction sparked long ago
by an adult's mad compulsion
to overwrite a child;
tender buds of truth
cast rudely underfoot
before they could blossom,
spontaneity shamed,
innocence mocked --
theft whose underlying script,
tenacious and annihilating,
continued to plunder the years:

"You, as you are, have no right to be."

But I answer now
(for it is never too late):
I am.

Waiting

"Something is wrong,"

murmurs the wind to the sky.

Uneasy down here,

I appeal on high.

All is calm,

all is still,

but something eludes me,

pray though I will.

Expectant, I wait

(for what, I don't know),

as I hold fast to hope, begging,

"Please, hope, don't go."

Perhaps

Hope . . . 

a sudden flicker of light,

blanket of calm down deep,

mystery whispering to the soul,

"Perhaps all is not lost, after all.

Take my hand."