Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

For GBE 16 Parent or Child this week, I'm sharing not an original poem, but one that has multiple meanings for me.  It is a poem written by Dick Lourie, and was also featured in the closing scene of the movie "Smoke Signals."  If you've never seen the movie I highly recommend it. 


I have yet to forgive my father.

How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?

And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?

Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?

If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

Smoke

Larissa has been on my mind all weekend.  Not that she's ever far away from it, but for some reason she seems more present.  It reminded me of something I wrote in 2009 for a Blogophilia post on Myspace, and thought I'd revisit it.

As I watched the smoke from my cigarette

curl and plume

I thought about her,

I thought about you,

I thought about us

And I realized how everything

is everchanging.

Interconnecting.

Evolving.

Life is death...

Death is life.

One can't exist without

the other.

You......Me

One can't exist without

the other.

Then you were beside me

watching me thinking,

watching me watching the smoke from my cigarette

curl and plume,

You asked me “What was going on in there”

as you touched my head.

I said “Do you think she approves?”

“Yes,” you replied

And quietly took my hand in yours.

Copyright Steven Clark 2009

Wise Words

"Life does not necessarily get better in recovery, it's just that the way you deal with the things that come up does get better."


The above statement was posted by someone on a recovery forum I visit, and the insight is something I needed to read today.


I constantly fail at recovery because I fail to see how life is any better when I'm sober.  Being sober is boring, tedious, and immensely more painful than not.  So I throw in the towel all too quickly when my life doesn't instantly become great.  


I guess addicts, when bottoming out, seem to view recovery through rose colored glasses....if I could only get my act together and stop using, life will be fantastic!  I'll be healthy!  My friends and family won't hate me!  I'll be employed!  I'll have money!  And when none of that materializes as quickly as we think it should, we get self-defeated and then start to look at our using life through rose colored glasses....it wasn't so bad!  The buzz is great!  Life will be fun again!  I won't let myself get in as bad as I did before, I can handle it!  And the cycle continues.


I guess I needed to hear those words today - that my life won't necessarily get better if I get sober - because I'm tired of being on that cycle, and I'm tired of being sold the lie that all will be perfect if I'm sober, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm a complete failure if I can't live up to the standards I place on myself when sober.  It was a poignant dose of reality from someone who's been there, done that, and gets it.


The question is, do I want to face sobriety knowing that?

Longing

All I can see around me is ashes.  Ashes floating in the wind, choking the air, painting everything a dismal grey.

Not even a few remaining burning embers can be seen amongst them; everything is cold.  Dead.

They are, of course, the ashes of my life.  Every thought, hope, and dream has died....burnt out...now blowing into the atmosphere as if they never existed.

I look at them and wonder, what was the point?  What is the point?

I have nothing left to burn, no hidden stores of fuel that can reignite the flame.  It is all spent.

So I go on, an empty shell, going about my empty existence, working my empty job, smiling an empty smile.....longing for a warmth that will never return.

Copyright Steven Clark 2011



Written for GBE 15

The Best Choice

I looked in her eyes and said,

"Are you sure?"

Her eyes said no

even as her lips said yes.

We had dangerously danced

and now it was time to pay the fiddler.

The appointment was set

and as the days marched on,

I continued asking her

"Are you sure?"

I could see nothing in her eyes now,

but heard more conviction in her yes.

The day came,

just another day with little fanfare

to mark the fact that we were

making an irrevocable choice.

As we waited,

I didn't ask her if she was sure...that time had gone.

When it was over

I took her home; in the car

I caught a glimpse of my own eyes.

They were full of regret.

Even so,

we had made the best choice.

My eyes will remind me, though,

that even the best choices

are not without their consequence.

In the distance I can hear the fiddler playing.


Copyright Steven Clark 2011

GBE 2: First Love

I remember the first time I saw her:  the most beautiful woman on the planet.

She walked in the room, sure and confident of herself, smiling at those gathered.  Her thick brown hair bounced as she walked in a mesmerising rhythm that hypnotised me.  Her brown eyes gleamed and had crinkles at the corners, sure signs of a person who laughs often and loves life.

I couldn't take my eyes off her.  If I looked away, I would surely cease to exist; I stared and stared as if my life depended on it.  But would she notice me?  Ego told me of course she would, how couldn't she?  But then my ego deflated as she turned her attention to someone else.  Who the hell was I to think I would stand a chance?  I sighed and slunk off, tail between legs, to the corner.  I gulped my drink, trying to drown my sorrows.

Glaring around the room, the thought went through my mind that it was probably for the best.  After all, one shouldn't set goals that are impossible to attain, and that goes for meeting women as well.  Still, I couldn't help but sulk a little and feel sorry for myself.  Ah, love.  We are made its bitch all too often in life.

But what was this?  She was walking towards me.  She was walking towards me!  I quickly stood up, and knocked my chair over in the process.  Great, I thought to myself.  Just the way to make a good first impression.  Now she'll laugh and wonder why she wasted her time....

"Oopsy-daisy, let me just help you with that."  She picked up my chair.  I was mortified.  I couldn't move.  I couldn't speak.  I wanted to die.  Right there, right then, just needed to wait for a big hole to open up and swallow me.  Any time now.  Hey hole, I'm waiting, hurry up.

She was saying something.  I was so busy waiting for the hole to appear that I missed her words.  I forced myself to look at her and she repeated herself.

"I'm Miss Cooper, your new 3rd year teacher.  What's your name dear?"

"Uh....uh....S-s-steven," I stammered like an idiot.

"Very pleased to meet you Steven.  Are you finished with that, love?"  She indicated to the empty chocolate milk carton clutched in my sweaty hand.  "Let's just throw that away now, alright?"

Had you going, I hope?

I was seven.  I had a crush on Miss Cooper that was so intense that I stammered whenever she asked me a question.  I still consider her my first love.  Years later as an adult I saw her again at a pub, but talked myself out of going over to speak to her.  If I had, though, I'd be willing to bet money that I would have stammered.

Dopamine

Screaming children surround us,

smiles lighting up their faces as

the roller coaster inches its way

up towards the drop o'doom;

we plunge down into the void

that spins us up and down,

loop-de-loop, over and under,

until easing into a smooth stop.

We pour out of the car,

a smile lighting up her face

as she turns to me for validation:

did I have fun too?

I plaster a smile on my face

because it's what is expected of me,

and watch the children around me

clamour to "go just one more time!"

The rush is over, but their euphoria 

will last a few hours yet.

I muse how this is considered

normal.

I wonder why this isn't enough,

why I prefer my high to this.

The slow inching of the amber liquid

into the chamber swirling with blood;

the plunge down into the void, the 

rush that spins me up and down,

loop-de-loop, over and under

until easing into a smooth peace.

My euphoria, too, will last 

a few hours yet....until

my body clamours to do it

again, "just one more time!"

She's looking at me, 

waiting for an answer.

I say "of course!" and kiss her cheek.

I don't say I'd rather have my kind of high.

copyright Steven Clark, 2011