The Point

When I wake up most mornings
I come out of a deep awareness
From resting in the arms of God
When not twisting like a worm
In hot ashes grinding out the day
I’m in control—but oh I’m not

God=dog (spelled backward) + self x ego (edging God out) / sense of humor

Thank You for that
for with that
I no longer feel sorry for myself
Looking forward to not sad
Gladness percolates with coffee

Self = letting go + knowing something / beyond space time + giggles + silly grins

Dede H

The kind of magic we can see
My little dog shivers at the door
I pick her up and she nuzzles me
I pop her into her bed and cover her

She licks my face in gratitude
Thankfulness is a magic conjured
Reframing lack into brick and mortar
Making a home wherever I go

This boat is a miracle and my home
I can start its old engine and it roars

I carry something mighty within me
I see this wondrous thing in everyone
It doesn’t come from me but through me

Dede H.

By Dede H.

Love is all there is
Love is all there ever was
Love is all there ever will be
Peace and love and peace and love
Be free my child and fly to me
I am everywhere inside and above
Give me to everyone without cost
Blessings flow from me to you to them
There are folks who think they’re lost
Reassure and share my love Amen

By Christine R.

When I understood almost everyone on my 4th Step list would land on my 8th Step List, I was horrified. There were folks in the resentment, fear, and sex columns upon whom the door was shut and the key tossed into the void. At the same time, I so vividly recalled my incomprehensible demoralization of character, the willingness remained steadfast. What kept me going also was the understanding that whatever was scrimped on in the Steps previous would come to bite me in the **** later. I’d had enough of **** biting and so continued to be as fearless and thorough as I could. Thankfully, the authors of our literature understood we had people in our lives where some time was needed before making inroads toward amends. The Big Book 8th Step describes making three lists: the as soon as possible list, the later list, and the are you out of your mind? I’ll-never-speak-to-that-person-again list.

With time and the river flowing, that last column of “no-never” became the best fodder for my soul. The eldest brother who beat, abandoned, and disowned me was no longer the fearful soldier coming out of Korea, the one I knew as a child. When we met for the amends, he was a cricket of an old man whose whole focus was his grandkids. While recounting my wrongs, the images of this personal Darth Vader faded. Seated before me was a white-haired, trembling oldster – how could I continue to carry the rock of hatred? I couldn’t. When he died, all that remained was gratitude for the Program to find lasting peace in my heart.
In the early days of recovery, I was a victim. A victim of my past. A victimhood that included incest, violence, abandonment, and disownment. Here’s to the canny sponsor who pointed out, “Yes. All these terrible things happened, but your job is to look at your side of the street first. Later you may find yourself in Adult Children of Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings. But not now. It’s too easy to carry on the victim role of ‘ain’t it awful’ and ‘look what they did to me.’ If we only look at what was done to you, you will never heal” She was right. Victims never heal.

I had a rolodex of favorite victim stories. I recall the day when I described my father’s untimely death when I was a child. How with that death, we lost everything: not only our beloved father/husband – our home, our possessions, our social standing as well. Everything was sold to stay afloat. We moved to a smaller home. At the age of 50 and not having worked in 20 years, Mom hunted for work. I was 15 and poured myself into a scotch bottle. A Ground Zero from which both my mother and I arose. After regaling my sponsor with this story, her response was, “That’s the biggest bunch of self-pity I’ve ever heard.” And that was my favorite story! Ouch!
With time I came to understand the death of my father and its attendant wounds were, of course, grief-worthy. It wasn’t so much about the grief as how I was holding that experience, making it an ongoing wound and an excuse to drink. Once I grieved the situation appropriately through the 9th Step, the pain began to subside. “Pain was the price of admission into a new life. It brought a measure of humility which we soon discovered to be a healer of pain. We began to fear pain less and desire humility more… 

My sponsor offered the vision of how my father must have felt, leaving us with no money or support. “Imagine how your Dad felt in the hospital bed, knowing you were not provided for and no way out of the bed?” she asked. Compassion brought understanding. The  understanding brought healing.

Sometimes, our part in things is how well we let go of past hurts. There’s the sponsee whose vengeance is upon her father. Her father abandoned her, her sister, and her mother for another woman. The father married the other woman, started a whole new family, and made a lot of money. Meanwhile the sponsee, her mother and sister were left in poverty and forced to live with their cranky grandmother. We can totally understand the grief and rage behind the experience. When she asked me, “What’s my part in this?” the response was, “How long ago did this happen?” For her it was 60 years past. Her part in this 9th Step process? Is to let go. Let go or get dragged.

It’s uncertain why we hang on to old wounds. It can be a lifelong habit that’s really hard to break. Maybe it’s the rush or heightened experience by keeping the rage and resentment alive. Even our 12 x 12 says, “There is no pat answer to fit all such dilemmas.” In the end, we choose between the hit or the serenity.

By John W.

If only you could have seen how much he loved you . . .
The visions of the past must have blocked that view.

If only you could have heard the love for you in his voice . . .
The din from the angry tirades was still too loud.

If only you could have touched his sadness from a distance . . .
Had the pain of his aggressions not dulled the nerves beyond repair.

If only you could have tasted the salt from his tears . . .
To know his loneliness at meals without you.

If only you could have caught the scent of his happiness at your thought . . .
But cigarettes and gin were the only odors to be recalled.

If only you could have known how much he missed you . . .
Yet absence did not make your heart grow fonder.

If only you could have known how much he loved you . . .

If only you could tell him that one time now . . .

If Only . . .

In Memory of Jim D. – A Great Example of “How It Works”.
September 4, 2014

By Anonymous

I was intrigued by the organization of this meeting I had been “invited” to attend. The secretary seemed to be taking no notes, creating no minutes and there appeared to be no real agenda, just people talking and chiming in from all over the place. Her aide, the guy at her right hand in the seat of honor and power, or so I had surmised, said and did nothing the entire hour – that was the job I would try to land for sure.  If I had to attend these meetings to try to keep “she who must be obeyed” off my back, then the easiest job available had my name written all over it.

Of course the reality of the “not drinking part” of the purpose of these meetings, then lost on me, also caused me to continue to sink deeper and deeper into my disease. When that changed, an actual miracle, in every sense of the word months later, through no fault or action of my own, except daily 7:00 a.m. meeting attendance, it began to dawn on me how clueless I was in those first few days about how that meeting really worked. As the sober days began to pile up into years, I saw how those trusted servants  volunteered their time, sometimes at a sponsor’s subtle elbow or nod, to help make things happen every day, 365 times a year, rain or shine. I was even told how on the morning of 9/11 the meeting continued, after a brief Group Conscience when the horrors of the Twin Towers and elsewhere were told in real time.  After all, sober men and women deal with tragedy a bit better than those not, at least that seemed the belief.

In my own recovery I understood  the hard lesson  that if the man to whom your Twelfth Step efforts were directed after a time does  not “get it,” we were to move on, to the next, still suffering alcoholic. This seemed so hard as I read those words in the Big Book. Its authors had recovered.  They told us how they did it. They shared their stories, some quite vivid and desperate, promising no matter how far down the scale we had gone, our  experience could help another.  So why would we leave the one who did not “get it” behind?  Why would we, how could we, abandon even that one?  The story of the shepherd going to any lengths to save one sheep astray from the flock was a reverberating counterpoint.

But it was I who did not get it.

As time passed, I realized  those who seemed to make it, did so because of something within them, something driving them to survive. No one was able to instill that drive in me and I realized I could likewise not instill it in the next man. He had to want sobriety all on his  own. I could only carry the message to him, not make him  hear it, not make him follow it, not make him live it. So too it seemed with those meetings I attended.

While my Home Group has not changed, often my schedule provides other alternatives.  I have found those meetings where I “want what they have” all seem to have the same sense of a drive to survive. They are compelled to do the next right thing as a group to keep their attraction alive. That does not mean they  have the best array of cookies or a variety of organic teas, although rigorous honesty demands the acknowledgment  I do not find them  to be detractions.  But it means they have a sense of purpose that is palatable to me. Hands are quickly  raised to help with cleaning up or to grab an open commitment. The awkward silence of waiting for a volunteer, if present, is short.  Also, the people in those rooms seem to exude genuine caring. Many might call it love, for those about them, particularly one who might be suffering, whether with 24 hours or decades of sobriety. They realize living life on life’s terms is not always easy.  They make that awareness evident in how they participate in the meeting. Their attraction is infectious to me.  I seek out those meetings, I return to them, I survive because of them.

  I have come to believe  they survive because of the same reasons that drew me into the Program in the beginning. Their members share the exact same reality I experienced- that to drink is to die. They seem to know, truly, the statistics are against the alcoholic’s victory over their disease.  In the same way for me Life Depends On It, I see too the life and longevity of a meeting depends on living this reality, one meeting at a time. 

By: Dede H. 

Joyous, happy and free!
How is this possible?
Drink brought me to this
In sobriety I am able
Connection is medicine

Every morning on ZOOMs
I share with my friends
Sometimes lasts all day
I join in the evenings too!
Last night I slept with WIMM

I’m good and calm and sweet
A short time with family tests me
I turn into a liar, thief, and a cheat
I pray I still have a chance to see
A happy—joyous, free stable me

When I take AA’s suggestions
Working the program diligently
There’re always good reactions
Positive results give me hope
Hope makes faith we can see