Sometimes I think there is a lot of vagueness when it comes to the idea of a Higher Power. I know there are people who resist the idea of God, often coming from childhood experiences with religion. I had that; for years the word God made me cringe. Having grown up in a Southern Baptist church, I ran from anything resembling religion. I was always interested in reading about other religions, and spirituality, but I had to leave the word God out of it.
I had attached a lot of negativity to that word. But really, it is what we want it to be. When they say, in recovery literature, to 'get a God of your understanding', I chose a God that I would not understand. I chose to perceive and receive this experience as The Ultimate Mystery, the cohesive energy of love that holds everything together, playfully tossing miracles around like confetti. What I have learned, for myself, is that if I am looking for this, then I am seeing this. There are no more or less miracles now than there were before I changed my thinking, but I can see them now, and they are everywhere- and they always were, I just couldn't see them. I now see proof of God because I am looking for proof- I am not looking to disprove, and I know that if I were looking to disprove I would find plenty of proof against God. At that point, I would be more than happy to drink AT God, who isn't there- all because I chose to not see him. One thing a friend said to me really had an impact. He said, "Hey, if you want astern and punishing God, then thats your choice. God will show up however you are ready to receive him." That really cooked my goose when I heard that.
Nowadays, I have quite a relationship with whatever it is you choose to call it. I used to read the Sufi poets, Rumi and Hafiz, for example....
Laughing At the Word Two
Only
That Illumined
One
Who keeps
Seducing the formless into form
Had the charm to win my
Heart.
Only a Perfect One
Who is always
Laughing at the word
Two
Can make you know
Of
Love.
From: 'The Gift'
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky
...and I didn't understand. Often in their poetry, they refer to God as The Beloved. They sing praises as if they were talking about, or to, a lover. But I get it now, being in a constant relationship with God, with this Unifying Principle, is a lot like being in love. There are moments of goosebumps, of intense gratitude, of not being able to believe how lucky I am to have this connection. Its a great adventure to see how God shows up, in me, in others, in events, in seeming challenges that give birth to new realities, the likes of which I wouldn't ever have dared dream. I don't need to question what is happening or why- life is unfolding the way it is meant to. I might not like it sometimes, but I love it all the same, because it is all part of a bigger picture that is tailor made for my soul's growth.
When I was caught up in the life of the ego- drinking, popping pills, shopping, going from one obsessive love relationship to another, always looking to create intense scenarios to hide inside of. I wouldn't have been very interested in anything like soul growth. But what I have found is that, interestingly enough, I was running from the very thing I wanted most of all. I wanted it at a level I couldn't listen to, because my ego/disease was the loudest voice in my head. I would go so far as to say that Predator that lives inside of us is the same Opponent of God that we have all heard about in all the religions and mythologies. It is very powerful, and cunning, and only has one job, which is to keep us from growing, and realizing our own Divine Nature. It does this by telling us we really don't want it, and we listen to that because it is a compelling voice- the voice we have come to know, which lives in our head. We have learned to follow it even as it leads us astray. But just behind that voice is the voice of the other, The Beloved of Rumi and Hafiz. That voice wants you to let it guide you, it wants you to have an ecstatic participation in a Divinely Animated Universe, it wants you to revel in The Mystery, which is the Next Level of recovery. First you adjust to abstinence. Then you quiet the Voice of the Ego by putting the principles of the 12 steps into your life. This is enough. But if you want the Next Level, I suggest really exploring the 11th step. Get quiet so you can hear that voice. The voice that has been quietly telling you that you are loved all along.
Some of this may be controversial, depending on someone's belief system and what they are willing to tolerate in others. Certain religions have little tolerance for other ways of thinking. I am mostly speaking, here, to those who are struggling with a belief system and do not already have one in place. And I am also speaking to anyone who is interested in someone else's experience in recovery. This area of my life keeps me aware, awake, and open to the rest of my life- from service work to my employment, my relationship to myself and others- everything. I notice that when a person's program begins to wane, this is often an area that is being overlooked.
Some of the places where I have found a lot of spiritual guidance and support are the following:
Kabbalah
Course in Miracles
Landmark Forum
Dr Wayne Dyer
Abraham/ Hicks
Science of Mind
Agape
Rumi and Hafiz
The 4th Way
The Bible
What the Bleep do We know (the movie)
Dr Masaru Emoto's water crystals
Women Who Run With Wolves- Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Harry Tiebout
Emmet Fox
Carl Jung
Howard Thurman
Krishnamurti
If you are seeking, if you need more, I would suggest google any of the above and start reading. Order some of the books, get the movies, watch documentaries, and immerse yourself in something of a higher order of thought. It will start to have a profound effect. Let it.
This blog is devoted to recovery on a cellular level, rambunctious transformation, divine silliness, outrageous compassion, and community. I will be documenting miracles as they occur in my life, and the challenges that birth them. Anything that inspires a new thought in me can be found here as well, like the artist Mark Ryden, or interviews with Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, or even music like Gayngs or Indian Jewelry...
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Staying sober through the season of good cheer....
The disease of alcoholism and addiction is, as they say in AA, cunning, baffling, and powerful. Its sneaky. Its smart. It doesn’t sleep and only has one job- that is to disable until death, stopping at jails and institutions along the way.
It is remarkable where the disease will lurk, trying to suss out where one is vulnerable. The holidays are rife with loopholes in an otherwise watertight sobriety; it is not hard to imagine how dicey the season is for those who are struggling with recovery. And for those who are still immersed in the disease, the holidays are a deadly battleground. The feelings of alienation and separateness that are symptoms of addiction are amplified during the season of good cheer; I know, I remember this well.
For me, I have found in recovery a tight knit clan of people with whom I celebrate Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Last year I had 31 people for Thanksgiving, all sober, all wonderful, all family by choice. A far cry from my last Thanksgiving before getting sober. That particular Thanksgiving, I am told that I took the ham out of the oven with my bare hands. That’s the last time anyone saw it; no one knows what I did with it after that. No one remembers eating it. But they all remember the spectacle of me removing it. Fortunately, I don’t remember that at all. I know we ended up at a small dive bar on Sunset; my children were spending Thanksgiving with their father, and so there was nothing stopping my debauchery, and it was all downhill from there.
I cringe a bit when I think of that night. It was so far from who I wanted to be. I didn’t realize that I suffered from an illness, that one drink, only one, would wake up a craving for more that I could not refuse. If I had one, then I was going to have as many as I could get in me. I wasn’t sure how to not have that first one; I was to oafraid of my feelings, of other people, of socializing, of not being good enough, of not knowing what to say, of being sad, of being happy. I really only wanted to have a couple of drinks, but it never, never, turned out that way.
This year, in my fourth year of sobriety, I found myself looking longingly at my Waterford crystal goblets, so pretty and sparkly and elegant. I remembered how, during Christmas, champagne was my drink of choice. I loved the bubbly stuff in the pretty glass with a plate of assorted cheeses. This sounds tame enough, right? Civilized, even. But not so for me, and for my ilk. The diabolical disease can dress itself up in sparkly elegance and still deliver its blow. It’s the same, whether its in a needle, a straw, a pill bottle, or a flute of champagne.
When I caught myself, I had to remember that my head is a liar. It says, “oh, how nice that would be.” Or, “you’ve worked so hard, what could it hurt?” I have to thank my disease for sharing, but to kindly shut the eff up and leave me be.
As if to answer my diseased thinking, my phone starts ringing. People looking for someone to do an intervention. Someone who had been in recovery a while, who had recently taken up drinking again, hung himself. Women hanging on by the skin of their teeth through the holidays, feeling lonely and alone, craving the dispicable comfort of a drink. Someone already deep in their cups, wanting to talk about an ex. I don’t spend a lot of time on the phone with a ‘wet’ one. I try not to speak to the disease, just like I try not to listen to it sounding off in my head.
I am grateful that I have learned tools that allow me to navigate the tricky times. I love the divine intervention of the universe, choreographing the phone calls that allow me to very poignantly re-experience the deleterious affects of ‘just one drink.’ Now that it is the day after Christmas, all the gifts opened, the last of the toll house cookies baked, I am deeply aware of my relief. Not that I made it through without a drink, but that I got to be present for everything, that I didn’t miss a single beat. That the joy that the season promises is, like everything, a choice.
Sometimes we need help to get sober, but in the end its always a choice. Happiness is a choice. Gratitude and serentiy and joy are choices. Recovery has given me the presence of mind to pause and dileberate and think through my reactions and choose appropriate responses instead. I get to show up for my life, not run, not hide, but SHINE.
It is remarkable where the disease will lurk, trying to suss out where one is vulnerable. The holidays are rife with loopholes in an otherwise watertight sobriety; it is not hard to imagine how dicey the season is for those who are struggling with recovery. And for those who are still immersed in the disease, the holidays are a deadly battleground. The feelings of alienation and separateness that are symptoms of addiction are amplified during the season of good cheer; I know, I remember this well.
For me, I have found in recovery a tight knit clan of people with whom I celebrate Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Last year I had 31 people for Thanksgiving, all sober, all wonderful, all family by choice. A far cry from my last Thanksgiving before getting sober. That particular Thanksgiving, I am told that I took the ham out of the oven with my bare hands. That’s the last time anyone saw it; no one knows what I did with it after that. No one remembers eating it. But they all remember the spectacle of me removing it. Fortunately, I don’t remember that at all. I know we ended up at a small dive bar on Sunset; my children were spending Thanksgiving with their father, and so there was nothing stopping my debauchery, and it was all downhill from there.
I cringe a bit when I think of that night. It was so far from who I wanted to be. I didn’t realize that I suffered from an illness, that one drink, only one, would wake up a craving for more that I could not refuse. If I had one, then I was going to have as many as I could get in me. I wasn’t sure how to not have that first one; I was to oafraid of my feelings, of other people, of socializing, of not being good enough, of not knowing what to say, of being sad, of being happy. I really only wanted to have a couple of drinks, but it never, never, turned out that way.
This year, in my fourth year of sobriety, I found myself looking longingly at my Waterford crystal goblets, so pretty and sparkly and elegant. I remembered how, during Christmas, champagne was my drink of choice. I loved the bubbly stuff in the pretty glass with a plate of assorted cheeses. This sounds tame enough, right? Civilized, even. But not so for me, and for my ilk. The diabolical disease can dress itself up in sparkly elegance and still deliver its blow. It’s the same, whether its in a needle, a straw, a pill bottle, or a flute of champagne.
When I caught myself, I had to remember that my head is a liar. It says, “oh, how nice that would be.” Or, “you’ve worked so hard, what could it hurt?” I have to thank my disease for sharing, but to kindly shut the eff up and leave me be.
As if to answer my diseased thinking, my phone starts ringing. People looking for someone to do an intervention. Someone who had been in recovery a while, who had recently taken up drinking again, hung himself. Women hanging on by the skin of their teeth through the holidays, feeling lonely and alone, craving the dispicable comfort of a drink. Someone already deep in their cups, wanting to talk about an ex. I don’t spend a lot of time on the phone with a ‘wet’ one. I try not to speak to the disease, just like I try not to listen to it sounding off in my head.
I am grateful that I have learned tools that allow me to navigate the tricky times. I love the divine intervention of the universe, choreographing the phone calls that allow me to very poignantly re-experience the deleterious affects of ‘just one drink.’ Now that it is the day after Christmas, all the gifts opened, the last of the toll house cookies baked, I am deeply aware of my relief. Not that I made it through without a drink, but that I got to be present for everything, that I didn’t miss a single beat. That the joy that the season promises is, like everything, a choice.
Sometimes we need help to get sober, but in the end its always a choice. Happiness is a choice. Gratitude and serentiy and joy are choices. Recovery has given me the presence of mind to pause and dileberate and think through my reactions and choose appropriate responses instead. I get to show up for my life, not run, not hide, but SHINE.
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