14
No one warned me that, even after getting sober, the past would cling to me like dirt beneath a gravedigger’s fingernails.
“Begin in Child’s Pose,” Rhonda instructs.
My forehead presses against the mat. My arms outstretch in front of me. I used to hate Child’s Pose. It felt so passive. These days, I want to be passive.
My arm is out of its sling, but it still feels weak. I can’t yet manage a Downward Dog. Whereas it was once easy to shape my body into an upside-down V, I now have to modify the pose by keeping my forearms on the floor.
My entire life feels like a giant modification designed to keep me from hurting myself.
Sobriety is life’s Child’s Pose. It’s been seventy-seven days since my fall off the roof, sixty-five since my release from Jefferson. In the beginning, I was too
