as ordinary as a hot cup of tea
a big sigh taken without thought,
black woolen gloves for cold hands
warmth radiating from a wood stove
ordinary moments that sneak up to become…life
waking one winter morning
dawn shines through bedroom window
sharp blades of light slice through
slumber, a beacon of
courage seeking a new day
working on a short wintry afternoon
outside my office window,
robin perches on bare branches of a red bud tree
stares back at me with a question in its black eyes
maybe singing, are we there yet?
walking outside one chilly evening
the moons iridescent ring grabs and shoots me
to the stars and back, to loom among the oak crowns,
a screech owl woman
bursting with mystery, calling for change
wondering, that after 27 years
your sweet smile flashes and sparks
sends shivers up my spine
stokes a fire that’s not been quenched
asking why would we want to rush these things?
grace finds us in odd moments
maybe on some ordinary morning
departs from us not where we are found
instead, transports us to uncharted realms
leaving no footprints behind
when is a smile more than a smile, a robin more than a bird,
the moon’s ring an uncanny passage,
morning sunlight a wake-up call and
when we pause to listen…
the ordinary may sound like a chorus of hallelujah
© January 20, 2016
When we look in the mirror, our cracks are still there, filled in now with unique golden lines. We see the cracks and our defects of character more clearly. Maybe we felt like fragile dolls before, too vulnerable, too fragile to live without our addictions. Through recovery we know where we have been and we are better now for having been there. We continue to take personal inventories, and make amends whenever necessary. We have combined our fragility with resilience to find a life of such richness that we never could have imagined. We have been damaged, have a history, but now we are more beautiful with our scars and cracks filled in with the golden powder of recovery.
Of Sticks and Stones 