ONE IN A THOUSAND
“Did they tell you the odds when you came in?” asked my sponsor.
“Yes. One in thirty makes it to the rooms. One in thirty of those stays for five years. One in a thousand gets truly sober and is catapulted to another dimension." I responded.
“What was your response to that?”
“Well, I showed the proper amount of surprise and said, ‘Oh, my.’”
“Yes. What did you think inside?”
“I thought. ' Climb with me or I’ll climb over you.’ Not very spiritual is it?”
“It worked. You’re still sober; a lot of folks aren’t. The company you keep is sober. There is nothing less spiritual than being drunk,” said my sponsor.
“Is that why it’s called a selfish program?" I ask.
“I don’t know. It seems to me sobriety is a gift you give to the world.”
“But I give it to myself.”
“Can’t give a gift you don’t have in your possession.”
Do what you can and try the rest.
The chase is on, round and round it goes
and where it stops no one knows.
I run after control and change as I grasp,
but can never quite get my fingers
wrapped around the thing.
An open fist is an adjustment;
no fist at all would be a feat.
The fool’s errand I send myself on brings suffering;
there would be suffering anyhow,
I feel I am the cause due to my attempt to avoid it;
another backhanded attempt at the illusion,
the goal, control.
Adjusting to reality is at first freefall;
rarely do I get to second.
The shape taken by the shift in my gears
to no gears at all dilates my pupils and the rest is white.
If the colors come back I don’t know when.
If the ground beneath me returns I don’t know how.
I am blinded by the light and can only follow the sound.