The first thing I want you to know about Vermont is it is very beautiful—the countryside, its big lake, its brooks and streams, its changing seasons. And these things are all free, to whomever wants to look up and look at and drink them in. The winter is very cold, with temperatures well below zero, and it can be very windy. But it is a wonderful time for woodstoves and cozy blankets and you loved ones nestled close.

The fall is incredibly colorful, with oranges, reds, and gold rustling in the breeze. And spring, ah spring, welcomed with open arms, blossoms and mud and full of promise. Vermonters cherish where we live—the good and the not so good. We are a friendly bunch, often waving to people we do not know, smiling that knowing smile. We Vermonters know something no one else knows.

The cage of my addiction is not very big, with widows so small only an arm can fit through. Little like comes in, and the odors you smell are horrific. I only talk to those who bring me stuff, and to others I say “I’m tired; leave me alone.” “I don’t want to go right now.” “I don’t feel well.” “Fuck you! Go away.” I will sleep whenever I can, and when I can’t, I stare at a wall, or the ceiling, a drab color, causing me to focus on the withdrawal I have felt hundreds of times: restless legs, nausea, profuse perspiration, chills, hallucination, the shakes, seizures, gastric obstructions, “fuck, don’t call 911 again.” My enabler holding me down, not letting me go. 

My cage is built of soft clay

Easily malleable

Held up together by fair weather friends

Their supports crumble at the first sign of rain.

The base is caving in, floorboards removed reveal quicksand.

How far will it pull me under this time?

The only way back up is to surrender.

To accept my plight means to finally stop

Treading and release control.

She was just a block from her house when she found the blue envelope on the sidewalk. With very little hesitation Sherry picked it up and continued walking home. At age twenty-two she was at her peek of curiosity and this was just the sort of thing she needed to offset her long hard day of waitressing. She figured someone that took the bus as she had just done had probably dropped it.  

There was no name or address on the envelope and the flap was securely sealed. It felt like a card inside. Sherry thought maybe it was an invitation to a party; that would make sense, a blue envelope, yes, that was probably it. As she continued walking to her house she let her imagination wander. She thought of all the things she wished she had and all the burdens she’d like to unload. Walking up the steps to her tiny house Sherry stopped, softly stroked both her cheeks with the envelope and sniffed at it. The possibilities of what it contained seemed to sooth her.

Good, no one was home. Gail, one of her two roommates had left her a note. Barb and I went to Bob’s for dinner; adding a little heart underneath. Sherry frowned at the heart. She thought it juvenile, it reminded her of all the gifts Gail received from her relatives while Sherry was strictly on her own- … and just remember if you leave here with that boy, you are on your own, her father practically screamed two years earlier as Sherry was quickly packing.

Sherry declared to him that Joe was the love of her life. He was, as she liked to say, her first really, real, boyfriend, though looking back they really barely knew one another. Joe left her six months later, because, he said, she “was smothering him” -only to discover later that he was indeed seeing Jackie just as she had accused him of.  He did however provide the reason Sherry needed to leave her father’s house and maybe, after all, deep down she knew Joe wasn’t the one for her.

For the next few hours Sherry went about the house making dinner, looking through magazines, listening to the radio, and always touching the envelope each time she passed it on the living room table. It had taken on for her a giddy-sweet push and pull of anticipation and wonder. Later, before her roommates returned she brought the envelope to her room and placed it in her underwear drawer. She liked how the envelope had begun to buoy her imagination.

As the days passed by the imagined contents of the letter changed. One day it was a letter from a new boyfriend, on another day an invitation to a smart and lively party. When the hard days at work would build and tumble on top of one another she imagined it contained an acceptance letter for new employment. The tiresome wiping and setting of tables was made less dreary as she imagined the new job descriptions held within the envelope. After coming home at the end of her shift Sherry looked forward to opening her drawer and holding, or if her roommates were close by as they almost always were, at least seeing, the blue envelope. Just knowing it was there gave her comfort. It seemed to contain her most valuable possession; it contained her imagination. When her moods were particularly harsh and dark she placed the envelope reverently and secretively under her pillow. Each and every time she touched the envelope she most certainly thought of opening it, but each day would end with the envelope still unopened.

Some days when her mind felt weak she imagined the envelope may have been placed right there on the sidewalk for her to find and she would scan in front and around on the bus to see if there might be something else, something more. It pleased her to think her roommate was not the only one to have unexpected gifts come her way. Sherry was usually not one to pray or believe in superstition but something about this envelope had resurrected her childhood sense of hope. It felt good. It almost felt like love.

One morning her customer Fred, who she had become friendly with, approached her with the idea that she might work for him. His right-hand man at his coffee-shop had fallen ill and he was sure that she could quickly catch on. The job paid a whole lot more than she was currently making and there was talk of eventually making her a partner. She agreed right then and there to take the job and they shook on it. She gave her two weeks notice at the end of her shift. 

The next morning on her way to work she took the unopened envelope from her drawer and placed it in her purse. As she approached her bus stop she held the envelope to her chest, closed her eyes, and prayed for the first time in years. She prayed that someone might benefit from this envelope as much as she had, and she thanked that that had placed it there. Then with no one watching and to the best that she remembered she placed the envelope exactly where she had found it and walked away

Copyright Gary Lee Miller 2015

Some people know the feeling;

The feeling of being alone…

                            Being scared…

    The feeling of sadness creeping up behind, grabbing you. You try to get away, but it holds on; eventually consuming you.

    Life is hard. For some people, it gets so hard, they hide. They hide deep inside themselves; shielding their soul from the hurt and pain they suffer.

    They smile, trying to hide the hurt from others. When people look into their eyes, they can see the pain. When they stare out in the distance, looking sad, their loved-ones ask “are you okay?” they lie by saying “I’m fine; just thinking.”

    Outside, they feel moments of true happiness.

                        Joy…

                            Love…

                                A true sense of belonging.

                But at home, they're tortured;

Constantly feeling pain again, and again.

They feel trapped. Stuck with nowhere to go. They’re scared, afraid that they’ll never get away. For some of them, they’re scared of a certain object or action that brings bad memories.

    For me, it was seeing the familiar bottle on the counter; a few ounces of clear liquid sitting in the bottom. Seeing the dark figure sprawled out over the couch, her chest slightly moving. All of the memories would flow back from an unwanted past.

    The memories of coming home from school to find her slumped over in a chair or passed out on the couch with an empty bottle nearby. Lea and I would beg her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. All she cared about was getting another drink.

The memories of the fights and pain would fill my head.

        Being afraid...

                 Hiding it from everyone...

                                It’s something I’ve gotten used to.

    It’s become part of my everyday life. Being around others, I might have shed a tear, but I lied to cover it up.

    Growing up alone in this hell-hole has made life hard. The harder life keeps getting, the quieter I become. The deeper inside myself I hide.

People have told me that life is going to get better.

                                I just hope someday it does..

(EDITOR'S NOTE: This story has a happy ending. The poem was written years ago. For Sarah, whose mom is in recovery, things are much, much better. It's an amazing contrast, and an example of all the joys recovery can provide)

Copyright 2015 Gary Miller

For starters, we prefer the name "woodchuck" to "redneck." For your safety coming to an intersection, if you have out of state plates, the guy with the biggest tires always goes first. Yes, that's a real gun in the back window and no, it's not illegal. Also, no, you can't hold it. Please do the speed limit or above when looking at the leaves in the fall; some of us do have jobs we need to get to and your slow driving just pisses us off. No, I have no idea why there are a set of whale tails on the highway. Nor do I care if you do.

My father owned a pine box that had brass hinges and a lock that kept the top from opening up until you were ready to open it. Inside he kept shoe polish and shoe brushes and rags. Screwed onto the top was a wooden stand shaped like the sole of a shoe with a cut out where the heel of a shoe fit. This box acted as a sort of miniature shoe-shine stand. When I was young he gave my brother and I the job of shining his shoes. My mother soon learned to make sure we put newspaper down first. It could get messy.

When my father died I inherited the box and polishes and brushes. My brother inherited his wooden shoe trees that are used to keep the shape of the shoe sturdy when they’re not being worn.

My father was a salesman and having a good shine on his shoes was important. I was surprised when his obituary came out of how many clubs he belonged to. He was the past president of a few of them. He was a real go-getter. I think this may have been because his father eventually committed suicide and he felt bad about it. My uncle told me this, my father never did. It’s strange what motivates us. Though we may point to this or that I think unconsciously we swim in our family’s unfinished business. We return to the comfort of where we’re spawn.

I became a salesman, too. Dad and I worked side by side. We both had well polished shoes and great smiles. He once split the cost with me so I could attend a week-long Dale Carnegie Salesmanship course. I still remember the CRIAC method for overcoming objections: Cushion, Repeat, Isolate, Agreement, and Commitment. Later on I learned that the new, new method was building relationships, not overcoming objections. So it goes…

I never joined many clubs, unless you call Alcoholics Anonymous a club. My Dad’s dad drank himself to death, so did one of his brothers. A friend once joked, Yeah, but they weren’t that bad. I wasn’t that bad either, though I wrecked every car I ever owned and often forgot about appointments. I did however have nicely polished shoes. I was somebody.

When my father died I quit buying the kinds of shoes you have to polish and then I quit selling real estate and then I quit drinking. I never liked competing for the business. I got a job in a warehouse. I liked getting things done.  

I’ve moved so many times since he died that somewhere along the way I must have decided the box took up too much room and ditched it. I feel the same way about drinking. It was taking up too much room. Recently I became a drug and alcohol counselor. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see what sort of unfinished family business I’ve been working on.

I never felt an overwhelming compulsion or need to compete or be someone special. In fact I tell people the good news for modern man is; at least, you don’t have to live forever. I don’t imagine my obituary will read very well. In fact, I don’t imagine there will be very many at my wake. You could say I’m not very polished. Mistakes and me; well, we get along pretty well. And besides, like my mother said, polishing things up can get pretty messy. 

In the beginning, all I wanted was a normal life. White picket fence, kids, husband and a cat. Work 9-5, dinner at 6. Bath time and TV, snuggly nights by the fire.

This wouldhave been perfect, I thought. This is what I was raised to want in my life. Little did I know how wrong I was.

Fast cars and fast boys. Easy drugs and plentiful liqur. Expenseive clothes and numerous houses. Secret nights and wasted days. The disease of addiction growing inside me. “I got this.” My favorite saying. An empty shell is what I became. A shell about to shatter.

In my lowest of lows I became willing to grow. With no outside “stuff” to make me happy, I was brought to my knees by the wait of the world.

“It’s not your job to carry the world,” I was told.

Then “It’s not your job to do it alone.”

“By helping you, you are helping me.”

“Walk in my footsteps and I will show you the way.”

“The solution is here if you want it.”

“Have you had enough now.

“Yes,” I said. “Today is the day. Give me your hand and show me the way.”

I took their advice and walked in their path, and no outside stuff could compare.

“Normal” life is not for me. Not if I want to know serenity.

The pen remembered. It remembered everything. The day it first received ink was almost 30 years ago. Coming to life in Mary Constance’s hand. The feeling of power coming from her hand, vibrating through its platinum casing. The importance of the work it did.

The intimacy they shared. The heartbreak. It relished the diary writing, where Mary poured her soul into and out of the pen.

Sometimes the frustration became so overwhelming or the anger so intense the pen would become air-borne or when a period became an ink spot worth looking at! Exclamation marks were thrilling. The flourishes used flowery, flowing script and proved how beautiful the pen was.

Encased in its platinum sheathing the pen was aware of the world around it. By the nature of the words, and expressions of angst. Joy, humor, and the delicacy of which they were produced.

Rarely were the words pouring out of the pen undecipherable, not matter the mistress’s multi-lingual capabilities. It was emotions the pen could relate to, the core of the word’s meaning felt as real as the Earth that the core of the pen’s platinum originated from. There was no difference!

All human emotion comes form the vibration of the Earth and the rotational pull of that which surrounds it!

The pen knew!

The pen didn’t age as Marty Constance did; it received new life blood every time it was refilled. (As that was a matter of course.) It continued to be an extension of Mary Constance’s conscious and sometimes unconscious self. The pen’s only life came from those who held it. They were the Gods, the puppet masters, the pen their slaves. For whatever was in their mind came out of the pen, no matter the information.

As Mary Constance aged, she grew bolder and stronger in her convictions so the pen felt its own power. As Mary Constance battled age and fatigue the pen was ever sure, if a bit hesitant. The shaky script had no less conviction in its truth. 

In the beginning, all I wanted was a normal life, then I found out what normal was as far as most people were concerned. I wasn’t sure I could have it, but I was certain that whatever I wanted out of life, normal wasn’t it.

Looking back, I was a sort of budding Buckminster Fuller; I cast out everything I was taught. Everything I was told was true. Everything I once thought I knew, I now knew that I never knew. From that moment forward every idea and ideal I held in my mind, in my heart, was mine, though I’d be equally happy if you shared it, too.

The truth is I didn’t succeed in casting out my ill preconceptions, but I tried, harder than most, I feel.I did succeed, though. I succeeded in redefining success in my mind to a state that is always attainable.

Even when broke, homeless, along, that is a feeling, I think, that most have never known.

The dream had been haunting Jimmy for weeks, but he wasn't sure just what to do about it. He couldn’t let it go, or dismiss it. It was a message of grand importance and the meaning saturated his waking hours. Eventually he formed a sort of wisdom around it, the sort of wisdom that Jimmy was famous for. And now he was finally ready to act.  

The first thing he knew for certain was that he was absolutely in love with Sally, again, that they were meant to be, but more importantly, he knew that this time he and GOD were in this thing together.

He awoke without hangover that day and though he and Sally hadn’t spoken to one another in weeks, Jimmy raced off in his 1998 Falcon to tell her the good news.

Sally startled when she saw Jimmy’s rusted out Falcon pull up the gravel drive. She peered through the window hoping none of her neighbors at the trailer park would make the connection between the rusty Falcon and the drunken scene of a couple months ago. It looked like her neighbors were gone. Sally swung open the trailer door and quickly calculated Jimmy’s intentions with jaundice eyes. She stood in the doorway wearing a pink nightgown and fluffy slippers with one hand strategically placed on her shapely hip. Jimmy jumped out of his Falcon, taking extra-long steps and looking energetic for his fifty-years. With exaggerated outstretched arms he closed-in to where Sally was standing. Inferring that all had been forgiven, Jimmy said; “Baby, I’ve had time to think and I was wrong, wrong, wrong!” Sally couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculous return and even though she had told him to never come back again she was still crazy about him. She loved his confidence, it was something she lacked and when he was willing to direct his attention her way she couldn’t deny him. Her attraction to him was beyond measure. “Jimmy,” she said sternly, “You can’t just walk in and out of my life when you feel like it. I’m almost forty and I need someone with a plan that includes me.” Jimmy went down on one knee, half joking- half sincere. “Baby, you can count on me. I’m a new man, and I’ve got a plan, a big plan, and you’re going to love it.”

When Jimmy saw her narrowed eyes soften and widen he gave her a wink and Sally jumped from the trailer stoop into his outstretched arms, nestling her bosoms into his chest while they kissed and kissed for the entire world to see. Yep, they were in love, again and she let Jimmy carry her inside where they sealed the deal.

Later while eating char-grilled burgers and macaroni along-side the trailer Sally asked him what his big plan was, and that’s when Jimmy explained the dream and about the secret codes from God that would be forthcoming through the waitresses at Cracker Barrel. “Have faith in me Honey I have a good feeling about this;” Jimmy said with a huge reassuring grin. Sally gave him a worried look, but not too worried, she wanted him to stay. He asked her to make up a question, any question at all. So she said, “Alright Jimmy, I want to know where I’m going to live when the landlord throws me out next week.” Jimmy said, “Oh that’s good, yes, that’s a really good question. So, here’s what we’re going to do. Just like in my dream, we’ll order our dinner at Cracker Barrel tonight and we’ll ask the waitress anything we want, but you and I will know that when she’s answering our question, it will really be God speaking in code through her telling us what we want to know. She’ll have no idea that God is giving her these words, but we’ll know. Just relax Honey, from now on God will be telling us exactly what we need to know. I can feel it. God didn’t send me this dream just to have me ignore it. This is going to be BIG. Just stick with me and watch where it goes. I love ya Baby, I LOVE ya.”

So that night Jimmy and Sally got a table at the Cracker Barrel and after warming up Shirley, their waitress, with a lot of small talk, Jimmy managed to slide into the conversation the question they had rehearsed all day. “So Shirley,” Jimmy inquired in a folksy kind of way, “Are the dogs that live around here friendly?” Shirley answered, “Why sure, they’re friendly, but if you want to meet some good dogs you’ve got to travel. When I was in California I saw the most unbelievable dogs. Some were so small you could put them in your pocket. And I saw dogs in New York City that were so handsome I’d prefer their company to a lot of men I know. Yeah sure, we’ve got friendly dogs around here, but there’s plenty more dogs to see if you travel a bit. “Yep, I bet that’s right, Shirley,” Jimmy said, before steering the conversation off to something else.

After Shirley left the table Jimmy said, “There you go Baby, GOD has spoken. It’s time I sold some things and we hit the road. We’ll get the rest of the plan from the other Cracker Barrel’s along the way.” Sally really had nothing to lose and if Jimmy was going on an adventure, well, she might just as well go along too. “You bet Jimmy, Yep, we are in for one fine ride indeed.” 

It was the hand, the hand with the ring on it reaching out to interrupt his dreams. Always showing up in the oddest of places. As a foot or a leg on a table, the side view mirror on a car, a brooch on a woman’s chest. That damned hand was haunting him nightly. But why? Why, dammit, today it popped up in his erotic daydream in a mood-killing place.

What was the meaning of it, he wondered. He decided to draw the hand, draw it as clealy as he could. Lord knows, it was imprinted on his psyche!

He took his time, remembering small details: age spots, flat topsails on an almost paper thin skin. It was the ring that he drew the easiest: big ruby, diamond encrusted, it was as familiar as if he himself were wearing it.

Hopefully by drawing it, it would stop haunting his sleep. He had a life to live, after all. He had to go to the post office, the bank, the grocery store and pickup his dry cleaning.

It was on his way into the bank that something clicked. It was the branch manager. But what about her? Irritating to have thoughts without answers.

And then, there she was, coming to talk to him. She held out her hand to take his and there was the ring on her hand. Not the hand from the dream; a much younger hand. Hmm he thought, that is the ring. I’d know it anywhere. I’ve been seeing it nightly for four weeks.

“What a lovely ring,” he said.

“Thank you, it’s been in my family for generations.”

That’s when it hit him. He saw her wearing it at a Chamber of Commerce meeting a month ago, and it had struck a nerve. But he had forgotten about it with all the back-slapping and cocktails.

That ring had been buried with the wife of the founding father of this down. She’d died in 1906 and the picture of her in the Who’s Who showed the ring and the significance of it.

How did the bank manager come to possess it? What should he do? Who should he talk to…

Boots crunched against the newly fallen snow.   

Lungs huffed.

In…

Out…

    Cold air cut cut through her chest like a steel knife.

    She carried on, fingers numb, lips cracked, eyelids freezing together with every blink.

    She kept her sight down, looking where to plant her feet. All she could see was white blankets of snow. By her guess, she must have lost the path long ago.

    Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did I decide to make the journey after a winter storm?

    She looked up, trying to find anything that resembled the path that would lead her into town. All she was met with was endless trees covered in white fluff. She continued to walk.

    Quickly, her muscles grew stiff from the cold, but she carried on.

    After an eternity of walking by what seemed like going in circles, she came to what looked like a path in the forest. Snow lay in a flat plane, rather than in the tiny hills and valleys of the forest floor.

    Hope swelled in her heart and she ran to the path, muscles screaming all the way. The path was wider than she remembered, but she shrugged it off; at least she knew where to go now.

    She got to the middle of the path when she heard it, a sharp, piercing CRACK! She didn’t have anytime to register what it meant before she was plunging into frigid water.

    Her lungs constricted, cold stabbed through her clothes into her skin, and she let out a silent scream. She kicked and flailed her arms, but to no avail, she was trapped, submerged in an icy river.

After the Wednesday night writing group broke up I drove my 1999 Ford Ranger back to my newly rented room and though I was in no hurry to arrive since I was only going home to my own company I still stupidly drove too fast for the weather conditions. Suddenly the red jeep I was following stopped and I skidded on the icy road and tapped right into the back of it. Not too hard, but hard enough that I heard the unmistakable tinkle of glass breaking.

The other drive and I stood along side of the road exchanging information as the snow fell with a winter’s pent-up gusto. She had a broken tail light but no other damage and I had none at all. I was taken by how fair-minded and appropriate her reaction seemed. After all, she said, that’s why they call these things “accidents.”  It began to feel that we knew one another quite well and we might have gone on talking much longer if it hadn’t been snowing so hard.

The next morning I awoke up with the image of her red hair and freckly face embedded in my mind. Over the next few days her image stayed with me, as though she and I were looking at the same things together. It seems without my permission a sparkly node in my brain had been lit and every turn I made seemed to turn it on again and again. Every red-headed woman I saw made my heart go pitter-pat in anticipation, and it wasn’t just women, it was objects, too. I had become fixated on red, orange red, to be exact. And yes, I remembered her eyes, there was a bit of pink on her lower eye-lid, as though she had been crying, or sad, or at least sensitive to a sort of woe. And when they closed a sort of purple played against the paleness of her upper lid. I had no idea I would remember so much about her. It seemed like a chance encounter like any other. But something happened something beyond our control had moved us along. When I finally called her she was receptive, she thought a lunch together was a great idea. That was a relief, so it wasn’t all in my head, she did in fact have feelings for me, too. Adventure, I couldn’t wait!

Hello Mary, how are you doing? I inquired, as I approached her table at the Lucky Next Door café. She looked terrific in her black barrette and her green-brown scarf that matched her eyes. My god, her eyes were big. My attraction to her almost overwhelmed me. She sensed this and spoke in a calming casual manner. “I’m good John, it’s been a good morning, got a lot of things done, and now, a nice lunch with you.” She said, putting the situation gently back to me. After all, I was the one who called her.

I inquired about her broken jeep light and how her job was going. She was a case manager for people with major mental illness. Perhaps this explained the sadness that showed in her eyes. I told her my job of selling cars was going well, and mentioned some   recent big sales, offering perhaps a coded message towards what I had hoped would be her need of financial security.

The lunch went well, and as I helped her with her coat it was clear we would see one another again. All became illuminated as I walked to my car. Colors jumped out with a shout. I was alive again. I had no idea I was so hungry for this, no idea I needed this. Weeks later as our romance ebbed and flowed I found myself one morning running to her door in desperation, thinking that things between us had taken a change for the worse. She met me at the door, with eyes purple, brown and green and gave me kisses upon kisses and said, John, everything’s going to be alright. And it was, just like that. She then led me to her couch and we slowly seeped into the earth breathing each others breaths and yes, yes, yes, the world was good, again.

As the days and nights wove us tighter together and we began to mimic one another’s mannerisms I found myself unconsciously scanning for coded signals for our cosmic “meant to be.” It could be anything, anything at all, the snow in the streets that forced our encounter, the name of the Lucky Next Door Café. I shared them all with her as lover’s do and she pointed out signals to me, too.

However, midway through our second year our mad love affair had fallen apart. Our differences became too much to ignore and after one too many fights we called it quits.

And now, many years later, when winter’s barren trees and dull gray skies send me down, down, down, to float in the landscape of my past I fondly walk with her again and think, if it wasn’t for the snow it never would have happened.

Yes, it was meant to be, and then it wasn’t. Our attraction had run its course. 

1. Live you life as you want to. Don't let fear hold you back. Do not get to the end only to look back and think "what if." Take the risks and see what happens. You may be surprised at the results.

2. Do not live in the past and do not let it consume today. You are not a special case. Shit happens and everyone wakes up and puts on a false face to cope with the world. Get over yourself.

3. No one knows what's going on, so don't try and figure it out, just go for the ride. If you don;t like where it's going, you can also make a left. Just don't ever back up.

4. The only person you have to impress is yourself. Never do something just to make others notice you. If they haven't by now, chances are it's for a reason and you probably don't need them in your life anyway.

5. Strops searching for whatever it is you're looking for. When the time is right you will find it; until then, enjoy what you have now.

6. This is the best advice I can give you. Do I live by it? No. I'm human, I'm flawed in every way possible, but so are you. Life is a series of decisions and for what it's worth there are no wrong decisions as long as you learn from the ones you make.

Take some advice from a person who knows; when the film starts playing and replaying behind your eyes, do not entertain it. Do not rewrite what you might have said, should have said, do not write a new script for her either. Do not scold her for not following her lines. Do not sit passive in the dark and wonder why. Life is still going on and you my dear friend are still alive. This pain of loss and dreariness you feel today will dissipate, the flowers and clouds will cease to frame her face, the sun and birds will no longer hold her name. The color of her hair and eyes will no longer mean a thing. Do not wallow in your weariness, be brave and pay attention to what is around you now. Do not glorify the loss or hold allegiance to the past. The future you fear will get here soon enough and when it does you will find you will get used to it, just like you got used to her. You will establish a new set point and comfort will come your way again, just like it always does. After all, apparently, you were in fact not getting along as you once did. The time had come. Though you may think it’s so unfair that her attraction to you had galloped away. Trust me, life is like that, it simply won’t hold still, you can not nail it down or lock it up. Life is wild and chaotic, it plays by slippery rules so unfair we turn away in disbelief. Do not try to corral it, or punish it. Start again, breathe it in, breathe it out, smell it, touch it. Consider the grace of being here at all. Plant your feet, open your heart, and do not worry how you might measure up. I promise you none of us will be here long and in the end there is no star for your lapel if you get things lined up so. No, there are just moments. Right or wrong, here we are, minds in the making, love for the taking. We are animals in our own image. 

I thought I'd share some info sent along about a new training program designed to teach people how to speak publicly about recovery. Here is the text of the info I was sent:

Are you a person in recovery, or a family member of someone in recovery, who wants to learn to speak publicly about your powerful experience? Have you recently viewed the powerful documentary "The Anonymous People" and want to find ways to get more involved?

Using a model based on Faces & Voices of Recovery, we have found a way talk about recovery in a clear and credible way that will help move the recovery advocacy agenda forward and make it possible for more people to get the help they need to recover.

We hope that you will use these messages day in and day out. "Staying on message" means using the same language or message over and over again, until it becomes part of our common understanding. You may get sick of saying it, but a unified message, from the entire recovery community, is what we need to do now. This basic message will help us maintain our focus and continuity as it gets integrated into everything that we do. In the future, when there's greater public understanding of recovery, we will be able to change our basic message.

Remember to use this recovery messaging any time you write or speak about mental health and/or addiction recovery, publicly or privately: 
- When you're talking to your family, friends and neighbors 
- When you're introducing yourself and speaking in public 
- When you're being interviewed 
- When you're meeting with elected officials, public policy makers and others in government
- When you're writing for your job or for newsletters, web blog posts, etc.
- ALWAYS! 

Flyer and registration form available at: 
http://www.vadic.org/wp-content/uploads/Our-Stories-Have-Power-trainings-Fall-20141.pdf

When I was young, I was in love with Martha McMasters. It was first grade and to me Martha was the crown jewel of the class. The Tarzan show was popular then and so was Zorro, both heroic characters that groomed me through our new Zenith television on how to behave as a man. One late afternoon while Tarzan played and lazy little stars of dust filtered through the family room blinds I asked myself; would I swim across a canal of alligators to save Martha? The answer pulsed through me into a Yes, yes, a glorious yes. Of course I would, I loved her! And before the day was up my mother had set up an after-school play date.  

Later that week when Martha’s mother pulled away my mind took off like a rocket and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. After my mother served us cookies and juice I escorted Martha to our back yard under the guise of showing her our old oak tree. This is also the only place in the yard that was hidden from the kitchen window by large bushes and low hanging limbs. In this place my mind was no longer held in check by my mother’s rational presence. It is where I was at my best, where clouds became alive, where creative exploration flowed through the air and all I had to do was breath it in. So naturally this is where I took Martha to make my move. Martha made it easy but still, it took courage. I looked Martha in the eyes and we both leaned in and quickly kissed right on the lips. Later after she had gone home I thought to myself, Yes, yes; we kissed. She is mine now. Me and Zorro and Tarzan we were all in this together.

The next day empowered by what I had accomplished I thought it only right to acknowledge our fate, our destiny, our kiss, so I wrote dear Martha a note. I declared in handsome block letters all that needed to be said, namely; I Love You, Martha- no signature needed. Then as the bell rang and we entered our class I swiftly lifted the top of her desk as I walked past and placed the note tightly wrapped with two rubber bands, one red, and one green, carefully on top of her other items so it would be the first thing she saw when she started her day’s lesson. All the while as I packaged my note I had visualized the delight in her eyes, the turning of her head and the coy little smile she would give me two rows back to let me know that she too had been transformed into another sort of person by yesterday’s special kiss, but, to my astonishment when she opened her desk and saw the note she didn’t turn around, she looked straight ahead, and raised her hand to alert the tall teacher that there was something strange in her desk that didn’t belong there.  

The teacher walked over to her desk, took the note from Martha’s hand, released the rubber bands, and after slowly reading the contents she looked right down at me and said; John, did you write this? By this time my face appeared to have caught fire and my limbs had become little numb sticks of ice. I don’t know how she knew but I had to think fast or faint. Some how, some way, at any cost I had to distract the teacher’s attention away from my declared love for Martha to something else, anything else, and so, I said, no, that’s not mine but I can show you a trick with those two rubber bands. I then proceeded to take the two rubber bands from her outstretched hand and demonstrated to her and the class how, if the red and green rubber bands are wrapped around the fingers in a certain way and held in a fist, when you opened your fist the red and green rubber bands jumped to the other two fingers. Tah dah!!!  

Martha and the class never found out what was in the note but they surely knew the note was mine. Soon after that Martha began to keep her distance and I began to view Tarzan with a more skeptical eye.

Many years later when my marriage ended and I eventually returned to gather my old dusty things from the attic I found among the useless trash my elementary school pictures. Sadly I noticed that at some point I had taken a ruby red crayon and scratched it across Martha’s face in the class picture trying no doubt to erase the pain I had experienced through my first encounter with love. While I sat in the cramped dirty attic I stared and stared through the red crayon at this black and white photo of Martha and it occurred to me that my ex-wife looked like Martha; she had the same blond hair and blue eyes, the same attributes and sensibilities. Apparently under that tree, in that special place, I had been imprinted all those years ago to seek out just this sort of woman. What if, what if… we had never kissed…  I might have sought out someone nice, someone kind, a friendly sort of woman perhaps, a woman who at least would have read the fucking note instead of giving it to the teacher.

And now, what is next for me, what other images from my past will demand my attention today. As you know, we don’t will or wish or want what we are attracted to, it just happens, and perhaps because it is out of our control is what makes it all so glorious. However, attraction goes away the same way it came. Poof it’s gone and all that’s left is to scratch through our old hopes and dreams the best we can and act like we didn’t care. I wonder, if Martha ever thinks of me. Oh, if only a ruby red crayon really worked. 

Last night's Writers for Recovery meeting was just peachy. Folks brought in extensions of their work from last week, in which they worked from the prompt "When I was young..." including an outrageously hilarious portrait of Brent's politically incorrect and overwhelmingly Godly grandmother, a tender evocation of Caitlin's nana, Pia's wonderful and heartbreaking portrait of childhood, and John's delightful and wryly observed tale of young love gone awry. I am hoping folks will share some of this so we can put it on the blog. Stay tuned! We also did a bit of story time, as by request, I read part of the title story from my short story collection Museum of the Americas.

The prompt for last night (and for next week's class) was inspired by Caitlin, who said "I don't want to write any more memoir. Can we write some fiction?" So if you want to join us, your task is to write onward from this opening fictional sentence: "Before the tiny, homely package arrived in the mail that morning, Ann believed herself to be one of the luckiest people in Jasper, North Carolina."

Good luck, spread the word, and hope to see you next week!

At our workshop on October 1st, we talked a bit about the idea of writing longer work. We read David Sedaris's essay "You Can't Kill the Rooster" and looked at how he managed to create a colorful, believable portrait of his brother by using general statements followed by specific examples. Then we wrote our own portraits of people from our past using the same opening as Sedaris's essay: "When I was young..." We did a quick  minute response to this prompt, then people took what they'd written home and used more time to expand on it. We'll share these longer works at the meeting on October 8. Hope to see you there!