By Thoughts of Recovery
The garden had been unusually quiet that morning.
Even Lando, usually keen to taunt robins or stare meaningfully at the compost bin, was curled asleep by the old watering can, one paw over his face like a monk in mid-prayer.
I was sitting under the Acer tree, notebook in hand, but it was closed today.
I wasn’t writing. I was waiting.
Step Nine had arrived.
“Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”
I’d written the list. I’d become willing.
But the moment to act? That was something else entirely.
The weight of the Step pressed down like humidity. The need to move. The ache to do something.
And that’s when Bertie appeared—not from the usual rosemary bush, but sauntering down the old stone wall, as if descending from a mountaintop.
He looked unusually serene.
“Morning,” I said.
“Afternoon,” he corrected, then plopped down beside me. “You’ve been sitting there for hours.”
“I don’t know what I’m waiting for,” I said honestly. “But I don’t want to rush this. The amends. It feels sacred. And scary.”
He nodded. “It is sacred. And scary. That’s why it has to be done with care.”
We sat for a few minutes in silence.
Then, without warning, two small shapes burst from the ivy like firecrackers.
“SID!” one shouted.
“SHELLY!” the other replied.
And then chaos: two squirrels, spiralling around the pond, up the cherry tree, along the fence, bouncing and chattering like someone had given them espresso and a blue sweets.
“They’re new,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Bertie replied. “That’s Sid and Shelly. Siblings. Agents of entropy. Enthusiasts of everything. They’ve been storing nuts and stealing compost labels all week.”
“WOO-HOO!” shouted Shelly as she launched off the willow tree and somersaulted onto the shed roof.
“We’re rehearsing,” Sid informed us, landing beside Bertie with a grin. “Planning our Great Acorn Redistribution Ceremony.”
“Also known as ‘burying things and forgetting where we put them,’” Bertie muttered.
The squirrels paused, eyes gleaming.
“You look stuck,” Sid said to me.
“Waiting,” I replied.
“For what?” Shelly asked, dropping from the gutter with unnatural grace.
“For the right moment.”
They exchanged glances, clearly baffled.
“There’s only this moment,” Sid said. “We make decisions mid-air!”
“I tried that once,” Bertie said dryly. “Ended up in a barbecue.”
But I wasn’t laughing. The tension returned. That pressure in my chest.
“I want to make amends. I really do. I’ve written the letters. Rehearsed the words. But it doesn’t feel… right yet. Not for all of them. Some people… they’re not ready. And maybe I’m not either.”
Bertie nodded. “And that’s exactly why you must wait.”
He looked at me, steady and still.
Then he said, almost in a whisper:
“Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?”
I recognised the words.
Tao Te Ching. Verse 15.
The line landed in me like a seed in soft soil.
“Wu Wei,” Bertie said. “Non-doing. Not inaction—but action in harmony with the moment. Step Nine is powerful. It can’t be rushed. Some amends you’re ready for now. Others… need time. And timing.”
“But how do I know when the moment is right?” I asked.
“You don’t,” Bertie said. “You feel it. Like still water sensing the first ripple.”
Sid and Shelly, oddly quiet now, perched beside us.
Shelly spoke first. “We once tried to repair a tree branch we’d gnawed through.”
Sid added, “Tried to glue it back with mud. Didn’t go well.”
“We meant well,” said Shelly. “But it wasn’t the time or the right mud. The tree hadn’t healed yet.”
I smiled. Even squirrels had parables, apparently.
“Make the amends you can,” Bertie said. “Now. From the heart. But the ones that aren’t ready? Trust the Way. It will show you. If you don’t try to force it.”
The breeze shifted. Light moved through the leaves like breath.
I opened the notebook—not to write, but to tear something out.
A letter. One I’d planned to deliver today. I folded it carefully, tucked it away.
Not yet.
Then I looked at another.
This one? It felt different.
Light. Ready.
I stood up.
“I think I know where I need to go,” I said.
Bertie smiled. “Then go. Gently. Clearly. Humbly.”
Sid saluted me. “Onward, brave human!”
Shelly tossed an acorn in my direction. “For luck!”
And as I walked away, across the garden and toward the back door, I felt something strange and sacred stirring inside:
Not closure.
But alignment.
The water was beginning to clear.The garden had been unusually quiet that morning.
Even Lando, usually keen to taunt robins or stare meaningfully at the compost bin, was curled asleep by the old watering can, one paw over his face like a monk in mid-prayer.
I was sitting under the Acer tree, notebook in hand, but it was closed today.
I wasn’t writing. I was waiting.
Step Nine had arrived.
“Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”
I’d written the list. I’d become willing.
But the moment to act? That was something else entirely.
The weight of the Step pressed down like humidity. The need to move. The ache to do something.
And that’s when Bertie appeared—not from the usual rosemary bush, but sauntering down the old stone wall, as if descending from a mountaintop.
He looked unusually serene.
“Morning,” I said.
“Afternoon,” he corrected, then plopped down beside me. “You’ve been sitting there for hours.”
“I don’t know what I’m waiting for,” I said honestly. “But I don’t want to rush this. The amends. It feels sacred. And scary.”
He nodded. “It is sacred. And scary. That’s why it has to be done with care.”
We sat for a few minutes in silence.
Then, without warning, two small shapes burst from the ivy like firecrackers.
“SID!” one shouted.
“SHELLY!” the other replied.
And then chaos: two squirrels, spiralling around the pond, up the cherry tree, along the fence, bouncing and chattering like someone had given them espresso and a blue sweets.
“They’re new,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Bertie replied. “That’s Sid and Shelly. Siblings. Agents of entropy. Enthusiasts of everything. They’ve been storing nuts and stealing compost labels all week.”
“WOO-HOO!” shouted Shelly as she launched off the willow tree and somersaulted onto the shed roof.
“We’re rehearsing,” Sid informed us, landing beside Bertie with a grin. “Planning our Great Acorn Redistribution Ceremony.”
“Also known as ‘burying things and forgetting where we put them,’” Bertie muttered.
The squirrels paused, eyes gleaming.
“You look stuck,” Sid said to me.
“Waiting,” I replied.
“For what?” Shelly asked, dropping from the gutter with unnatural grace.
“For the right moment.”
They exchanged glances, clearly baffled.
“There’s only this moment,” Sid said. “We make decisions mid-air!”
“I tried that once,” Bertie said dryly. “Ended up in a barbecue.”
But I wasn’t laughing. The tension returned. That pressure in my chest.
“I want to make amends. I really do. I’ve written the letters. Rehearsed the words. But it doesn’t feel… right yet. Not for all of them. Some people… they’re not ready. And maybe I’m not either.”
Bertie nodded. “And that’s exactly why you must wait.”
He looked at me, steady and still.
Then he said, almost in a whisper:
“Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?”
I recognised the words.
Tao Te Ching. Verse 15.
The line landed in me like a seed in soft soil.
“Wu Wei,” Bertie said. “Non-doing. Not inaction—but action in harmony with the moment. Step Nine is powerful. It can’t be rushed. Some amends you’re ready for now. Others… need time. And timing.”
“But how do I know when the moment is right?” I asked.
“You don’t,” Bertie said. “You feel it. Like still water sensing the first ripple.”
Sid and Shelly, oddly quiet now, perched beside us.
Shelly spoke first. “We once tried to repair a tree branch we’d gnawed through.”
Sid added, “Tried to glue it back with mud. Didn’t go well.”
“We meant well,” said Shelly. “But it wasn’t the time or the right mud. The tree hadn’t healed yet.”
I smiled. Even squirrels had parables, apparently.
“Make the amends you can,” Bertie said. “Now. From the heart. But the ones that aren’t ready? Trust the Way. It will show you. If you don’t try to force it.”
The breeze shifted. Light moved through the leaves like breath.
I opened the notebook—not to write, but to tear something out.
A letter. One I’d planned to deliver today. I folded it carefully, tucked it away.
Not yet.
Then I looked at another.
This one? It felt different.
Light. Ready.
I stood up.
“I think I know where I need to go,” I said.
Bertie smiled. “Then go. Gently. Clearly. Humbly.”
Sid saluted me. “Onward, brave human!”
Shelly tossed an acorn in my direction. “For luck!”
And as I walked away, across the garden and toward the back door, I felt something strange and sacred stirring inside:
Not closure.
But alignment.
The water was beginning to clear.
Message for those in recovery – Step Nine:
Not every amends can be made at once. Not every wound is ready to receive an apology. Step Nine requires courage—but also wisdom. The humility to act when the moment is right, and the patience to wait when it’s not.
Do not confuse urgency with healing.
Like clear water after stirred-up with mud, the Way will show itself—if you let it.
Wait. Trust. Then move.
And maybe, just maybe, ask the squirrels first.
The Water Clears
The squirrel leaps,
because it does not doubt,
the branch will hold.
The hedgehog waits,
because he has fallen before,
and now knows the rhythm of the wind.
And I,
I sit,
mud in my chest,
the past stirring like silt in a shaken jar.
I want to move.
To fix.
To mend.
To do.
But the Way does not yield,
to urgency.
It flows.
Soft as breath,
certain as dawn.
“Do you have the patience to wait,
till your mud settles,
and the water is clear?”
asks the ancient voice,
beneath all other voices.
“Can you remain unmoving,
till the right action arises,
by itself?”
Wu Wei,
the non-doing,
that does not mean nothing,
but everything in its time.
A list in my pocket.
A letter in my hand.
Some truths are ready to walk.
Others must still rest.
The cat dozes.
The squirrels chase light.
The hedgehog watches clouds,
and says nothing.
And in that nothing,
I understand everything.
To repair is not to force.
To rush is not to honour.
So I breathe.
And I wait.
And I trust
that when the time comes,
the Way will carry me like water
to where I am meant to go.
And until then,
I do not stir the pond.
I let the mud settle.
I let the water clear.
