Writings of Recovery

His Roots Grasped a New Soil

This old soil is dead and it is killing me. There are no nutrients here. If there was at one time, they have long been used up. There is no resurrecting this soil. I must move.

But, where? Where do I go? I am paralyzed.

This container I am in is way too small. I am bursting at the seams. My roots are a tangled mess with nowhere to stretch and spread. It hurts. The pain is agonizing.

A pair of hands reach down into my pot. The disturbance shocks me and I recoil in fear. What are you doing to me? NO! NO! NO!

My roots start to untangle, aided by the pair of hands. Some things start falling off.

Pain.

Resentment.

Fear.

Confusion.

Addiction.

Hatred.

Self loathing.

Control.

I can’t see anything. It’s dark. I am disoriented. I feel weird. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am.

Hmmmm. It’s quiet. I take a deep breath. That smells nice. What is that smell? It’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it. I take another deep breath. I wiggle my roots a little.

Oooooohhhhhh…..It’s squishy. It’s wet. It’s soft. It’s comfy.

Movement starts coursing up my roots. It tickles and tingles and vibrates. I don’t know this feeling, but I like it.

Peace? Joy? Love?

Whatever it is, I want more.

My roots stretch and sink deeper into this cushion of loveliness. It supports, yet allows me to move a bit.

Another deep breath. Oh. I just now realized my head is down and my eyes are shut.

I lift my head and turn toward the light and the two hands.

Another deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

Thank you.