Encouragement from Hesiod
σοὶ δ᾽ ἐγὼ ἐσθλὰ νοέων ἐρέω, μέγα νήπιε Πέρση.
τὴν μέν τοι κακότητα καὶ ἰλαδὸν ἔστιν ἑλέσθαι
ῥηιδίως: λείη μὲν ὁδός, μάλα δ᾽ ἐγγύθι ναίει:
τῆς δ᾽ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα θεοὶ προπάροιθεν ἔθηκαν
ἀθάνατοι: μακρός δὲ καὶ ὄρθιος οἶμος ἐς αὐτὴν
καὶ τρηχύς τὸ πρῶτον: ἐπὴν δ᾽ εἰς ἄκρον ἵκηται,
ῥηιδίη δὴ ἔπειτα πέλει, χαλεπή περ ἐοῦσα.
For your own good, I tell you, Perses, you silly fool,
Badness by the barrel-full one can lay hold of
Easily; the way is smooth and quite close at hand.
But the immortal gods have put sweat before excellence.
The path to that is long and steep
And rough at first, but when one nears the top,
Then it gets easy, though it is still difficult.
Sheldon, you silly fool. This is beginning to not hold water anymore. Less a silly fool than a hurtful ass.
We claim spiritual progress rather than spiritual perfection. But really, is there anything really other than spiritual perfection? Our spirits are perfect. Our bodies' abilities to house them perfectly are less than average.
Selfishness. This came rising to the fore again. I had worked it down till it was barely noticeable, but then, like an old unwelcome friend, the dreadful knock on the door, that at once awakens fear and queasy feelings, but at the same time, a little perverse excitement.
So many exhort me to make recovery a full time job. I am beginning to think they are right.
My brain is bruised today and my face is sore from the oral surgery the other day. I need to heal. My spirit is also sore from being misused and maltreated. Today is one day. But it is one day. The saint with whom I share my life grows weary of my bullshit. There was supposed to not be anymore bullshit. I sincerely thought I was through the woods. There was my biggest failing. Never through the woods, only one day reprieve from the insanity of active addiction at a time.
Fuck me. It is from the self hate from "same ol', same ol'" that the desire to dig in and persevere wanes. The frustration of failure, the immensity of the wreckage that can form in such short fashion. These things conspire to keep me lost, blind and broken.
No, I say. No. Today is for me. Today is for my heart and soul and my children. Today I live. Today I will give love to those who stand by me, and love to me too.
I had attached myself so firmly to a program of recovery and a fellowship, so firmly to a feeling of being done, of being committed to a life of sobriety and health. Then, I stopped moving forward. I stopped helping others. I got busy again, jumped back into work, being a multitasking ADHD doughhead, smooth talker and crazy homelife. Recovery took a back seat and so did my sobriety. Asshole selfish druggie jumped back into the front seat, and I never even put up a fight. I just let him slide in. And once in, he has a hard time relinquishing the wheel.
I've taken it back. Today, with a vengeance, and with some soft love for my hurting soul and my hurting family.
Today, and God willing every day.
The owl's call. To wit and to woo. My friend Paul Weinhold describes the possibilities of what Shakespeare may have meant with the owl's call in Love's Labor Lost here. I think this is the choice I am faced with - to succumb to my wit, to the place of my ego, where my rat-a-tat-tat smarty pants sense of humour and manipulative wordsmithery live, or to woo; to that place of love, which is sincere, real and borne of love and all things of the heart. The former is a slippery slope for me, where I may be prone to my own bullshit, The latter is a part of me that I love. My soft, chewy centre, and one that is safer for everyone. To wit, to woo: If that is a question, then certainly I must to woo.
Much love.
S.
τὴν μέν τοι κακότητα καὶ ἰλαδὸν ἔστιν ἑλέσθαι
ῥηιδίως: λείη μὲν ὁδός, μάλα δ᾽ ἐγγύθι ναίει:
τῆς δ᾽ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα θεοὶ προπάροιθεν ἔθηκαν
ἀθάνατοι: μακρός δὲ καὶ ὄρθιος οἶμος ἐς αὐτὴν
καὶ τρηχύς τὸ πρῶτον: ἐπὴν δ᾽ εἰς ἄκρον ἵκηται,
ῥηιδίη δὴ ἔπειτα πέλει, χαλεπή περ ἐοῦσα.
For your own good, I tell you, Perses, you silly fool,
Badness by the barrel-full one can lay hold of
Easily; the way is smooth and quite close at hand.
But the immortal gods have put sweat before excellence.
The path to that is long and steep
And rough at first, but when one nears the top,
Then it gets easy, though it is still difficult.
Sheldon, you silly fool. This is beginning to not hold water anymore. Less a silly fool than a hurtful ass.
We claim spiritual progress rather than spiritual perfection. But really, is there anything really other than spiritual perfection? Our spirits are perfect. Our bodies' abilities to house them perfectly are less than average.
Selfishness. This came rising to the fore again. I had worked it down till it was barely noticeable, but then, like an old unwelcome friend, the dreadful knock on the door, that at once awakens fear and queasy feelings, but at the same time, a little perverse excitement.
So many exhort me to make recovery a full time job. I am beginning to think they are right.
My brain is bruised today and my face is sore from the oral surgery the other day. I need to heal. My spirit is also sore from being misused and maltreated. Today is one day. But it is one day. The saint with whom I share my life grows weary of my bullshit. There was supposed to not be anymore bullshit. I sincerely thought I was through the woods. There was my biggest failing. Never through the woods, only one day reprieve from the insanity of active addiction at a time.
Fuck me. It is from the self hate from "same ol', same ol'" that the desire to dig in and persevere wanes. The frustration of failure, the immensity of the wreckage that can form in such short fashion. These things conspire to keep me lost, blind and broken.
No, I say. No. Today is for me. Today is for my heart and soul and my children. Today I live. Today I will give love to those who stand by me, and love to me too.
I had attached myself so firmly to a program of recovery and a fellowship, so firmly to a feeling of being done, of being committed to a life of sobriety and health. Then, I stopped moving forward. I stopped helping others. I got busy again, jumped back into work, being a multitasking ADHD doughhead, smooth talker and crazy homelife. Recovery took a back seat and so did my sobriety. Asshole selfish druggie jumped back into the front seat, and I never even put up a fight. I just let him slide in. And once in, he has a hard time relinquishing the wheel.
I've taken it back. Today, with a vengeance, and with some soft love for my hurting soul and my hurting family.
Today, and God willing every day.
The owl's call. To wit and to woo. My friend Paul Weinhold describes the possibilities of what Shakespeare may have meant with the owl's call in Love's Labor Lost here. I think this is the choice I am faced with - to succumb to my wit, to the place of my ego, where my rat-a-tat-tat smarty pants sense of humour and manipulative wordsmithery live, or to woo; to that place of love, which is sincere, real and borne of love and all things of the heart. The former is a slippery slope for me, where I may be prone to my own bullshit, The latter is a part of me that I love. My soft, chewy centre, and one that is safer for everyone. To wit, to woo: If that is a question, then certainly I must to woo.
Much love.
S.
