By Thoughts of Recovery
The evening was made of velvet.
The heat of the day had faded, but the air still held a gentle warmth—like the last breath of a story that didn’t want to end. The garden was quiet, almost reverent. And above, the stars had begun their slow procession.
I had set my chair in the usual place beneath the Acer tree. A flask of chamomile tea sat by my foot. The notebook—now familiar, weathered, softened by many steps—lay unopened in my lap.
I didn’t need to write tonight.
I needed to listen.
Bertie arrived without sound, his silhouette barely more than a thought against the garden’s edge. He climbed onto the bench and, instead of speaking, just nodded toward the sky.
I followed his gaze.
It was one of those rare skies—completely clear, dark as ink, pinpricked by the countless small fires of distant unknowns.
“Evening, Bertie,” I said quietly.
“Evening, mate,” he replied. “I thought you’d be out here.”
“I didn’t want to miss it. The stillness. The stars. The… invitation.”
He nodded slowly. “Step Eleven?”
“Yeah.”
“Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”
He smiled. “A step that isn’t about movement at all—but about returning.”
I looked down at the ground, then up again. “It’s easy to drift, isn’t it? To let up. To rest on the spiritual momentum of the earlier steps.”
Bertie’s voice was soft, but steady: “It is easy to let up on the spiritual program of action and rest on our laurels. We are headed for trouble if we do.”
I nodded, feeling the truth in that deeper than ever.
Then, from the ash tree near the far end of the garden, there came a slow, deliberate flutter. Heavy wings moving like ancient doors.
And then a voice—low, deliberate, wise.
“You called?”
I turned and saw him.
Wayne, the eagle owl. His eyes golden and calm, his feathers marked with the age of forests. He landed on the fence with the grace of someone who did not need to impress.
“I didn’t call,” I said quietly. “But maybe I was hoping.”
Wayne tilted his head, amused. “Same thing.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re learning to listen. Not just to silence, but to what breathes inside it.”
“I try,” I said. “But it’s hard to know what’s me and what’s guidance.”
Wayne blinked slowly. “That’s why you keep asking. Every day. The practice isn’t the answer—it’s the doorway.”
Bertie stirred beside me and then, very softly, said:
“A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.
He who acts spoils it; he who grasps it loses it.
People usually fail when they are on the verge of success.
So give as much attention to the end as to the beginning.”
I let the words settle.
Step Eleven wasn’t about chasing clarity.
It was about seeking. Asking. Listening.
Not to get what I want—but to hear what’s needed.
“How can I best serve Thee?” I whispered. “Thy will… not mine… be done.”
Wayne ruffled his feathers, satisfied.
“That’s the prayer,” he said. “Not a spell. Not a bargain. Just an offering.”
We all sat in silence after that.
And just before night fully took hold, something happened.
A faint glow began at the eastern edge of the horizon.
“Sunrise?” I said, confused.
Bertie chuckled. “Memory.”
“What?”
“That light—it’s the sunrise reminding you it always returns. Even now. Even beneath the dark.”
Wayne gave a low, approving hoot. “The Divine does not speak. But it does ask for your attention.”
The night deepened. But I didn’t feel alone.
Because in that small corner of the universe—beneath stars, beside a hedgehog, and in the gaze of an owl—I was connected. To the rhythm. To the prayer. To the path. To the Way.
And to something far greater than myself, moving quietly through it all. My God
Message for those in recovery – Step Eleven:
The heart of Step Eleven is relationship. Not religion. Not performance. Just a conscious, daily turning toward the Divine as you understand it. You are not expected to always hear perfectly. But you are asked to show up. To listen. To seek. And to trust.
“How can I best serve Thee?
Thy will—not mine—be done.”
Repeat it. Whisper it. Let it shape your day.
Because the sunrise always remembers the way,
even when we forget the dawn.
The Owl, the Hedgehog, and the Listening Sky
Night does not arrive.
It becomes.
It unfolds like an old robe,
laid gently across the shoulders of the earth.
And I,
I sit beneath the acer,
not to think,
but to unthink.
To empty.
To ask.
Not for what I want.
But for what is true.
The owl lands without apology.
Wayne.
Eyes like still wells.
He has come not to answer,
but to remind.
Bertie says nothing,
which is how I know the moment matters.
The notebook is closed.
The mouth is quiet.
The soul leans forward.
I whisper the only prayer I remember,
when memory fails:
“How can I best serve Thee?
Thy will—not mine—be done.”
The stars do not reply.
But they do not turn away.
Somewhere behind the mountains of my worry,
a sunrise stirs.
Not to interrupt the night,
but to remind it,
that the Way is still moving.
That dawn does not require permission.
That light is not the opposite of dark,
but its continuation.
Step Eleven is not a mountaintop.
It is a breath.
Taken on purpose.
Held without grasping.
Given back with gratitude.
It is not the answer.
It is the posture.
The heart turned slightly,
not toward outcome,
but toward offering.
The owl blinks once.
The hedgehog bows his head.
And I learn again
what I always forget:
That prayer
is not always words.
That guidance
rarely shouts.
That contact with the Divine,
feels less like lightning,
and more like remembering something you already knew,
before you were born.
So I sit.
Still.
Awake.
Empty,
but not alone.
The stars are watching.
The owl is near.
The Way is waiting.
And something in me,
not mine, but of me,
whispers yes.
