No Mathing Blather

Two plus two equals four . . . . .

If a liar affirms, am I sore?

At his assent, should I laugh -- forsaking all math?

Or has truth triumphed yet once more?

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.

Speed of Light

Reality knocks hard and fast

and won't be overcome

by taking flight or crouching low --

blind running from the sun.

Treading Earth

Lie, who can chase you

through wind and rain?

When you've run yourself ragged,

Truth rises again.

Say It!

Say it . . . . .

Sing it!

Let it barrel forth

from the lungs

up into the trees

and the clouds

and watch it soar

high

free

beholden

no longer

to anyone.

Tell Me

Tell me, please, when it's time

for me to sing atop

my faraway mountain,

past and present

united 

in one resplendent light,

history's torch

burning in my heart.

Window

A speck of information

the size of a pinhead --

upon such a detail

an entire galaxy may pivot;

and somewhere, in the awed hush

of realization,

someone's universe

exponentially widens.

Lift Gently

Lift gently, fog,

that soul may not

stagger

from light's sudden

clarity.

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.

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.

Quickened

Poetry uses inanimate words

to frame reality.

Reality framed by acts of love

breathes living poetry.

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.

A Separate Space

In times of crisis,

feelings can elude me

and I must watch from my head,

knowing for months or years

the gravity of what has unfolded,

benumbed in silence while others emote

grandly . . .

and I wonder why I

can't.

But later,

when present is past

and the drowning hubbub has ceased,

in swoops the enormity of the truth --

all the more striking against a subdued backdrop --

unlocking all of the feelings that rightly belong to it,

spreading its wings

wide

to catch my flowing tears.

Jewel Underfoot

Discomfort takes its stand,

crying out to complain,

but not from pain.

Pain knows better than to

shake its fist and sulk --

as do those whose noses

have never scraped the ground.

If pain should resort to such trifles,

they would be base imitations,

the weight of such lies

casting it down once again.

And how tragic to stamp one's feet

in a pretender's rebellion,

only to realize later

that pain, humbling and true,

had left a precious jewel in its wake,

now crushed

underfoot.

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.

Imprint

Once you've read a passage
of truth in a face,

that page stays inside you;

you won't lose your place. 

Greatness of Mind

Truth, not dependent upon intelligence, is a free gift available to every human being.  The measure of a truly great mind is its ability to appreciate, with respect and humility, truth as it is revealed by minds of all shapes and sizes.

This and That

People are most helpful when they recognize where they end and God begins.  This distinction is what separates true works of mercy from their insidious counterfeits:  control and manipulation.

Flattery versus friendship:  Flattery seeks to further the Kingdom of Me.  Friendship reaches out even when there's nothing to be gained.

Being known in the right and reasonable ways can be a bulwark of sanity and the greatest consolation.

Just Between Me

They like to think they know you,

so they ask no questions,

smiling benevolently

at the you they've decided

you are --

who you are not.

And they would have you remain

that way

as they glide right past you

to greet the you

who doesn't exist --

because it so pleases them

to have settled upon

any fixed idea of you
at all
which, by the way,

is probably much more

manageable and tolerable

than the you

you really are.