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The Frog
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January 21





Stretched in the water, still, the frog hangs.  The pond is barely a teacup, sufficient for the communion of God and frog.  I watch the frog, unblinking , savoring respiration.  In a pond in Maine, I bore this posture, center stage.  A quarter mile of water all around, I hold my head above the surface and feel I am in the eye of God’s creation, face to face with benevolence.  Peace spars with uneasy smallness.  I am a tiny speck, floating in the soup; I am one organism in a sea teaming with life; I am a part of, not privileged but equal to the rest.  Can I bear this reality, the struggle of living on a web?  Can I live a humble life, knowing I am favored no more than the rest?  Can I set aside my need for preferential treatment, a God-given Band-Aid for my multitude of hurt?

“If you can’t, you will drink," says my sponsor.

“If I have to live this way, I will cry,” I respond.

“That is your God-given right.”



Take someone else’s Higher Power out for a test drive.




Saurian or Dalliance



I love to be mystical

but the only dragon in my life

is when I drag on and on.


Procrastination is the winged beast in my world.

I armor plate the thing, shiny and gleaming,

my loitering delay is mightily impressive.


You might think it would take flight

from the way it postures

but departure has been adjourned

in favor of misgiving and postponement.


I wander through the forest

attempting to appear brave and feeling it occasionally

while my tale grows longer.


I need the fierce face and sharp claws

I can beat the mythology

if I will just continue to take action.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault