By Thoughts of Recovery

One quiet afternoon, I was starting to make the small room at the back of our kitchen into new small office and creative space, I was sat cross legged painting a radiator. The room still had the smell of fresh beginnings—paint, dust, wood, and that strange hopeful silence that clings to new spaces. I was moving the brush slowly, almost meditatively, when something at the back door caught my eye. 

A hedgehog. 

He stood there, small and unbothered, as if he belonged. He didn’t fidget or scurry. He just looked in, like an inspector checking on my progress. Then—this might sound odd—he gave a small, perceptible nod. The kind a craftsman gives another when the work is good. Then, with the same deliberate calm, he turned and waddled off. 

I smiled. 

Over the next week, the hedgehog began showing up regularly in the back garden. I started to expect him, and maybe he started to expect me too. Every morning, same time, same calm presence. Like a little monk in a coat of spines. 

One morning, I was up early—5:30am—sat in the garden, watching the sunrise. The world was beginning to stir, birds humming their prelude, leaves shifting in the early breeze. I took a deep breath and felt, utterly present. The chaos of the past—all those drunken days, broken promises, desperate mornings—seemed like echoes from someone else’s life now. The Steps had taught me to sit still, to make peace with the now. 

Then I felt a soft shuffling at my feet. 

It was him. 

The little hedgehog looked up at me, blinked twice, and then said, quite clearly, “Morning, mate.” 

I blinked back, convinced I’d lost the plot. But he continued, unbothered by my stunned silence. 

“Name’s Bertie. Thought it was about time I introduced myself. We’ve been seeing enough of each other.” 

“You’re… talking?” I stammered. 

“‘Course I am,” Bertie said, settling beside my foot like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve been listening, haven’t you? To the silence. That’s when we can talk. Most people can’t hear me over the noise in their heads. But you’ve been tuning in.” 

I was too amazed to be afraid. There was something reassuring about Bertie. Grounded. Real. 

We sat for a few minutes in comfortable silence. Then he said, “You’re doing a good job, you know. Walking the Steps. Staying present. Bit of paint on the hands and truth in the heart. Not bad.” 

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “It’s… hard sometimes.” 

“‘Course it is,” Bertie nodded. “The Way doesn’t promise ease. Only flow. Water finds the low path. So must we.” 

I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “You used to fight everything. Yourself, the world, your past. Now you’re learning to surrender. To accept what is. Step One, right?” 

I nodded. It hit me then how much that Step had cracked me open—how much it had humbled me. I admitted I was powerless. That my life had become unmanageable. That was the start. The letting go. 

Bertie looked up at the orange-pink sky. “There’s something about the dawn,” he said. “No matter how dark the night gets, it always turns up. You just have to stay long enough to see it.” 

We talked a while longer. Or rather, he talked, and I listened. He had the kind of wisdom that doesn’t come from books or sermons. It was older than both. Deep wisdom. Simple truths. Paradox and peace. 

“You’re beginning to live in rhythm again,” he said. “Alcohol cut you off from that. But the Steps—they’re like acupuncture for the soul. They reopen the channels. Make room for life to flow again.” 

I looked at him then, this small creature who somehow saw me more clearly than most humans ever had. “Why me?” 

“Why not you?” he replied. “Besides, we hedgehogs notice people who are waking up.” 

He stretched, then gave me another one of those sage nods. “Anyway, I’ll be around. There’s more to learn and loads of juicy slugs in your garden. The Steps don’t stop at Step Twelve, you know. That’s where they begin to live in you. That’s when the real journey starts.” 

He ambled off then, disappearing behind the rosemary bush, leaving me with my thoughts and the lingering scent of possibility. 

Since that day, Bertie has continued to visit. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just sit in silence and let the morning unfold. 

Each meeting is a reminder: recovery is not about grand moments. It’s in the small ones. The brush stroke. The breath. The sunrise. A hedgehog’s nod. It’s about surrender, connection, and flow. 

And I have a feeling that Bertie and I—we’re only just beginning this adventure. 

To be continued… 

---

Message for those in recovery: 
The Steps are not a ladder to climb, but a path to walk, gently, day by day. In that walk, we find companions—some human, some not. Stay open. Stay humble. And remember: even the smallest creature can carry the biggest truth. 

If you listen closely, you might hear your own Bertie whispering wisdom at sunrise. 

---

The Way of Bertie 

A man sits cross-legged, 
 brush in hand, 
 painting heat into a new beginning. 

The room breathes of first things, 
 wet paint, raw wood,  
 and the silence that always arrives 
 before the soul remembers itself. 

He moves slowly. 
 Not from weariness, 
 but from reverence. 
 Each stroke a prayer, 
 each breath a return. 

Then, 
 a rustle, 
 a presence. 

Small, round, 
 cloaked in quiet dignity. 
 The hedgehog does not ask to enter. 
 He does not need permission. 
 He observes. 
 And nods. 

The sage comes in many forms. 
 Not all who teach wear robes. 
 Some wear spines. 

Day by day, 
 the hedgehog returns. 
 Not seeking scraps, 
 but presence. 

He does not preach. 
 He appears. 
 He sits. 
 And the man learns, 
 not from words, 
 but from stillness. 

One morning, the veil thins. 
 The wind is quiet enough. 
 The man’s heart is empty enough. 
 And the hedgehog speaks. 

“Morning, mate.” 

All true wisdom begins this way, 
 not in thunder, 
 but in the calm after ruin. 
 Not in books, 
 but in the hush between birdsong and breath. 

“You’ve been listening,” he says. 
 “To the silence.” 

The man does not argue. 
 He knows. 
 The ears of the heart, 
 only open, 
 after enough breaking. 

“Water finds the low path,” says Bertie. 
 “So must we.” 

Power lies in yielding. 
 Peace is not the absence of struggle, 
 but the absence of resistance to it. 
 The old life fought the tide. 
 The new life 
 floats. 

“Why me?” the man asks. 

“Why not you?” 
 the hedgehog replies. 

The Way favours no one. 
 It flows where it is allowed. 

 

The sun rises without effort. 
 The hedgehog waddles without shame. 
 The man breathes. 
 And for once, 
 that is enough. 

The Steps are not a staircase. 
 They are the riverbed. 
 And you are the water. 

Brushstroke. 
 Breath. 
 Radiator. 
 Rosemary. 
 Recovery. 

All things in their time. 
 All things part of the Way. 

The journey is not toward greatness, 
 but toward wholeness. 
 Toward being, 
 exactly, 
 what you already are. 

Even the smallest creature 
 can carry the greatest truth. 
 Even the broken man, 
 can become a monk, 
 with paint on his fingers. 

Sit quietly. 
 The teacher may come. 
 Not with fire, 
 but with a nod. 

If you are present, 
 you will hear him. 
 If you are still, 
 you will know him. 

And you will remember: 
 the sacred speaks softly. 
 Sometimes, 
 it just says: 
 “Morning, mate.”