Sunday Morning

The sun threw the world into a technicolor relief—the land of Oz before the anguished journey. To forsake the perfect blue sparkle of the sky, the jagged, red rocks beckoning in the distance was almost unbearably painful. But the basement beckoned with the safely of the womb—the womb that would, for a short hour, embrace her crazy children so that they could go out in the world without doing too much more harm.

Hearing the monotonous drone of the Prayers--3rd and 7th —Trudy was swept along by a comforting numbness. Maybe God (whoever THAT was) could take away the burden of her SELF (which was definitely a prison). But then, even she wasn't childish enough to believe that hearing the words was the same as doing the work.

The reading was about the serenity prayer—and also—once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. The only choice being whether or not to be a sober alcoholic. But Trudy wondered still—still had that sick little/loud voice that would not shut up—that continued to ask her, “Are you sure? Now that you're on those anti-anxiety meds (yes, they make you see double sometimes, and sure you feel sleepy) don't you think you could drink in moderation? Aren't you normal, yet? Haven't you earned it? Isn't that awful itchy skin that you need to jump out of gone now—most of the time?"

The roar of the coffee maker rumbled like an earthquake through the silent breathing and mild shuffling of the 5 minute meditation. Trudy stood up from her perfectly, carefully chosen seat at the ring outside the inner circle, her seat near the door, next to her beloved tote that had its own seat should anyone get the wrong idea and try to sit next to her. She dug through her tote for the sweet round white pill. “Ahh”, she thought, "this is my morning meditation.”

Ruth Powers--07/31/11