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! 

(Some shots from our pre-show rehearsal. Click on the photos to advance through them.)

On Saturday, our Writers for Recovery group gave a reading at Burlington's ECHO Center for Recovery Day Burlington, 2014. To say the reading was fantastic does not do it justice. Everyone stepped up to the mic with confidence and delivered their readings like pros. They stories we told were powerful--because they were as beautifully written as they were true to life. The crowd responded with visible emotion (and a standing O), and we got many compliments afterward. We even made the news on WCAX, with Patty and John speaking to reporter Melissa Howell.

We have gone so far in just a few short months that it's hard to believe. But we aren't finished yet. We'll be back at the Turning Point next Wednesday at 5:30 for Workshop. And if you are in recovery of have a family member working to overcome addiction, please do come and join us. 

Gary Lee Miller photo

Stan and Gary were on the WCAX morning show yesterday. Click here to see us talk about the workshop with host Ali Freeman. 

I read where you like warm climates. Yes, that's it. You and I will be crazy in love. We'll love each other so much we'll play board games and cards. We'll plant tomatoes and save for a holiday in Spain. We'll teach each other Spanish and we'll call each other just to talk about the seasonings that we're thinking of using for dinner. I'll have a picture of your naked foot on our front door and perhaps on a key chain too. I'll make up new poems every night and we'll eat them right before sex. I'll have parties in your honor and invite all the neighbors.You'll stand in the driveway and sing the love songs that you make up on your way home from work. Once a month we'll tango around the block and sleep in the yard. We'll not say a word to one another for a whole day, just so we'll miss the sound of I love you.

A hibiscus grows in my garden

pale delicate crepe-paper yellow

dark blood-red center

this morning like last year

all my puttering stopped

when a lone flower appeared

there in this flower

my mother speaks

Aloha, aloha, she says

like she did when she was happy

drawn to her gaze

our good years settle

like sun

upon her yellow petals

unspoken love almost forgotten

comes back alive in her red

she is resurrected

and I am

forgiven

It's dark

Not pitch black

more like fuzzy grey. Television static snow

This fog cloud of fuzz has a stench to it; Vinegar.

We make a turn, a bit too whimsically, and I thump my head.

Small holes of subtle moonlight seep in, stifled by the artificial neons nearby

Brisk air rushes my face as we accelerate. 

I try to reach out to steady myself. clank. nothing.

"Ah, DAMN it!" the sobering realization of restraints.

And that's when I knew I was en route to jail. not again.

"God I have to piss"

Now my own contributing addition amongst the, already, sulfuric ambiance.

Just as the back door exit of my paddy wagon escort's doors fly open and I'm saturated in the blinding fluorescence

Special Guest Author Ellen Lesser

We had a full house of writers for last night for another incredible evening of Writers for Recovery. It featured special guest Ellen Lesser, author and teacher extraordinaire from Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Ellen talked about the nature of writing in her life, and how she has used it as a tool of recovery since her childhood. Then she knocked our socks off with a reading from one of her recent short stories and responded generously to questions from the group. 

We finished the night with a writing prompt, writing for seven minutes on the topic "What I Have Recovered." You are welcome to do this too, and send your response to writersforrecovery@icloud.com for inclusion on this blog.

Finally, we made the decision that even though our ten weeks are up, we aren't ready to stop! We won't meet next Wednesday, August 27. But we will be back on September 3, and will keep the group going until further notice. So please, come join us!

I am from the small towns of New England, where every one knows what you had for dinner

Where the sea was once a way of life and a badge of pride, and the resting place of lost loved ones

I am from the back country roads we drove with no destination in mind,

Where the leaves on a cool fall day danced to the sounds of small block v8's thundering by

And the rubber left at stop signs was the only proof we were there

I am from the place of memories both good and bad

Where I had bowed as a peasant and stood as a king,

Where the greatest of hardships showed what would become the greatest of strengths 

I know where I am from but if you ask I do not know where I'm going 

Ode to Franny-O’s

You pass

the time

wth me

some sweet

nights

I sit

with old

deli managers

day laborers

done-in actresses

doting pundits

You serve

me up

the usual

cool blue

valium drink

it stings

and tickles

my throat

Down in this

dark

world of

would-have-beens

and could-bes

is me

One for

if only

Two for

Why not

Three for

Whatever

My Father’s Hands

My father wasn't like Mr. Wonson

With his soft, flabby lips

And protruding belly.

My father was tall and lean and handsome

And looked like he could be somebody famous

“Like he stepped out of a bandbox,” my mother said

Only I didn't know anything about bandboxes.

He had the hands of an artist

Strong and gentle

I'd watch them

When he drew cartoons for me.

My father wasn't like Mr. Wonson

Who used to pull the drapes

And try to kiss me.

My father bought me jewelry and fancy dresses

Took me to dinner and dancing

He'd put my tiny feet on his and we'd whirl across the floor

Me, drunk on his cologne, he on his martinis.

My father wasn't like Mr. Lindars

Who asked the little girls into his garage

And had them pull their pants down.

My father picked me up every Sunday

And we'd go visiting

I'd sit quietly in my scratchy dress

While the grown ups laughed and ate.

He'd carry me drowsy to the car

We'd soar down silent parkways

In the blackness he'd pull me close.

My father's hands didn't seem like an artist's then and

I wished he'd leave them on the steering wheel

And me on my side of the car.

My father wasn't like Mr. Sarlin

The kind teacher who saw trouble in my eyes

And shed a tear when he read my poem.

My father cried when he had too much to drink

He told me he didn't know how to be a father

And I believed him.

Who was this stinking man

Who had the neighbors keep watch on me

Always needing to know where I was  

He said he'd show me just who was boss.

My father would have men with axe handles

Follow me and call my name

And then disappear.

These nameless, faceless men always seemed to know

Just where I'd be and 

Just what jewelry I'd be wearing.

I couldn't hide from my father's hands.

No, my father wasn't like Mr. Wonson

Who would pull the drapes and try to kiss me

Or Mr. Lindars hiding in his garage

My father was a silent, insidious stalker

Who seduced the little girl who thought he was God.

Suffocation

Reflections of

needles

in the diamonds

stab

and gleam

in your eyes

Moods and

shadows

in your smile

hide

and lurk

in our days

Fangs of anger

borne

of tears

ravage

a heart light

already dim

Cries of rage

in a desperate dream

mourn

for the light

of days past

that burned

in a vacuum. 

We had a very special night at Writers for Recovery, courtesy of Vermont Poet Laureate Sydney Lea. Speaking in his quiet, unassuming baritone, Syd shared the impact his addiction to alcohol has had on his life, and told his story of recovery. In his talk and the poetry reading that followed, he conjured whole other worlds, populated by Passamaquoddy Indians, horse loggers and river runners, addicted convicts, Vermont hill farmers, and most powerfully, himself. It was a night for eloquence and candor, and one worth remembering.

Inspired by Syd, we tried some poetry of our own, with the usual remarkable result. We also welcomed two new writers, who I sincerely hope will stick around.

The prompt for last evening was to take 10 minutes to write a poem with the first line "I Am From." This exercise has become very popular, and for good reason. It's a chance to talk about where you came from, the family, friends, and places that surrounded you, and how you came to be who you are. Here's a great example, from poet George Ella Lyon.

I will be on vacation next week, so Bess will be your workshop leader. And please, send some work to writersforrecovery@icloud.com so I can post it on the blog. Thanks!

We really rocked on Week 6. Dan Bolles of Seven Days stopped by to talk with us about his life as a music journalist. We welcomed some wonderful new writers to the group. And we filled in the blank in the prompt "When I listen to ___________, this is what happens" with the name of an artist or band, and kept writing. The results included amazing personal reflections on musicians from Nina Simone to the Afghan Whigs. We'd love to read your take on the prompt, so write for seven minutes and send it to writersforrecovery@icloud.com.

For next week's class, write for 10 minutes on the following: "A poem to my addiction." Special guest next time will be Vermont Poet Laureate Sydney Lea. See you then!

Creeping down Shelburne road in my fancy BMW, must’ve been 2 or 2:30 in the morning, music blasting, I was lucky to have made it home without being stopped.  That three mile stretch home from Franny’s I could do with my eyes closed. The next thing I remember was my keys flying out of my hand. “GodDAMN it,” I bitched.  It was then I noticed the blackness of the night – no moon, not a star in the sky, I felt like a bird in a cage under a sheet at night. OK, I try to focus my spinning brain ~ I’ll have a cigarette and cool down. “Jesus Christ,” I thought to myself; “where is my lighter?” Fumbling in my pockets, I come up with nothing.  It must be in the car.

It was a beautiful night, and my keys couldn’t be too far. I stumble to my car – “SHIT,” it’s locked. Now I’m fuming; no cigarette, no lighter. I decide to crawl on my belly; arms outstretched doing the “snow-angel.” No keys.  I begin at the car reaching as far as I could to either side of me, inching slowly up the trail of the missing keys. The keys couldn’t have just disappeared; I heard them hit the ground. They are heavy keys complete with a bronze medallion of sorts with the Serenity Prayer some shrink gave me years ago. I should be able to find them.

Slithering on my belly, my fingers clawing into the grass for what seemed like hours -- nothing. Desperation was beginning to well inside and I began to feel panicked.  My husband wasn’t home (thank God), which was precisely the reason I had felt privileged to close the bar.

But what the fuck was I going to do? Scratching and groveling in the wet grass, lighter- and cigarette-less, I cursed.  Myself first, for being so drunk; my inability to figure out why I didn’t have – and couldn’t find – my keys.  Then God for making it so dark, then myself again for taking me to the limit of my alcohol consumption – again.  And again. And again. Then myself again for being me.

So I reasoned, with whatever neurons were still actively connecting, that I could stand up, (that is if I were able), find the porch railing and, holding on, steady myself enough to make it onto the deck, where there was a chair I could sleep in.

The next thing I knew the birds began to chirp and I perceived a piercing lightness through my eyelids, afraid to open them. When I did, I went to the edge of the porch and, there, within a foot of where my arms must’ve reached, were my keys, gleaming in the sunrise.

That’s when I knew I’d crossed the line.

Days before she met the novelist, Cora went to the library and brought home a stack of plastic-sleeved hardcovers with one-word titles like Heirloom and Ruffian andSeductress. She knew she needed to do a little research for her project, for it to be carried out successfully.  The novelist was appearing at the local Barnes and Noble Thursday night at 7.  Cora knew she had to be absolutely ready.  She was already pretty sure she had all the supplies ready to go.  They could be inconspicuously placed in her jacket, which she would certainly need in this chilly fall weather.  The sleazy low-rent romance novels from the library she knew would be required reading, unfortunately.  The novelist, Scarlett Lovewell, almost certainly a pen name, and a horrible one at that, even for this genre, had caused Cora enough pain and was going to have to pay.  This was going to be a very memorable scene, when all was said and done.  Cora’s extensive knowledge of anatomy was going to allow her to hit many of the main arteries.  Bright red blood.  Not the darker, slower moving deoxygenated blood returning in the veins.  Nope, she was after the high-pressure system, and if the store re-opened at all it would only be after an extensive cleaning of the walls and likely ceiling as well.

Gary Lee Miller photo

We had a truly incredible session last Wednesday, with readings that ran the gamut from intense to hilarious. Visitors from the Burlington Free Press gathered materials and took photos for a Sunday arts feature that will appear on August 3. Best of all, it will include some of the work read by students for the Week 5 session!

Next Week, Dan Bolles of Seven Days will visit us to talk about his work and a writer and editor. He will not be writing about the group for Seven Days.

The prompt for Week 5 was "What the ghost said when it whispered in my ear." Seven minutes. Go!

The person who is my secret weapon is actually I think part of myself – someone that doesn’t get to come out that often. I feel that I have ambled along through life never really taking any chances or truly applying myself.  I managed to get a BA degree but it was kinda just something that seemed like the easiest path. I’d like to restart my life after high school and realize sooner that I can’t just mosey along through my own life. This secret weapon is part of me that does come out on occasion, when I really put in some effort or take a risk of some kind. He has made a few appearances over the years but has been dormant for quite some time now.