Wondering, once again...

Ah, the holiday is history. It was laid back this year. My dearest friend and I were orphaned by other ex-spouse's with big houses and wives who cook, so we got together and divied up the traditional dinner. I did the turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes (ever so much better than yams), and pumpkin pie. She did the mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, and mincemeat pie. And it was all sumptuous, especially the gravy, which was the stuff of dreams. Both of us got prodigious amounts of leftovers, too. Then we headed over to the Thanksgiving Alkathon, a marathon, 24 hours of meetings, every 2 hours, for all of us who struggle through this dreadful season. The host meeting was a step study that uses the 12 & 12, an auxilliary to our Big Book, that goes into the steps (and traditions) in depth. Because of the number of persons, after we read the first step from the book, people who wished to share were asked to come to the podium, and speak into a microphone. Now, I have done that, when I was asked to. But I was loathe to volunteer my wisdom, not knowing if it would be welcomed. So the usual cast of characters bounced up and stood in line to regale us with their sobriety. One woman, who is six days less sober than I, who has been in my face most of my recovery, and always puts herself in front of everyone, said she was standing up for her program. And I wondered if I should have gotten up there after all. When is it pride and when is it just being thankful for my recovery and wanting to share it with a roomful of people? Is it arrogance to waltz out in front of everyone, or is it arrogant to sit in the sweetness of my own wisdom? I do have some good stuff to share. None of it is mine. Well, most of it isn't, anyway. It came from sponsors, sponsees, hundreds of other recovering souls who are trudging the path of happy destiny alongside me, and a few dozen spiritual teachers and books. I am, after all, a seeker of truth and beauty. Haven't arrived at enlightenment yet, at least, not all the time. But I have had little glimpses, moments when it all seemed to be clear and possible. Well, that moment passed, and I sat there, one among many, and listened. We'll see what happens next time. At Christmas. Or New Year's. Because I will be parked there in that folding chair again and again. Perhaps choosing my moment is better than always opening my mouth. I seem to tune out that woman I mentioned automatically, knowing she will say pretty much the same thing every time. Lord, save me from my own platitudes!