Anchoring Down

ON A COLD and blustery day, I stood on New York's Central Park West and watched a child's lost helium balloon being driven by the wind. I had just left a noon AA meeting. The balloon skimmed along the treetops. Its string followed behind, barely touching the naked tips of the uppermost branches. The balloon symbolized my condition. I was alone, without roots, skimming the surface of reality--disconnected. I needed an anchor.