Category: Guest Posts

Last Sunday, I chaired a local AA meeting. Compassion and grace were chosen as the topics. Faced with seventy souls, some of whom were actually listening, I let loose my truth. Heads nodded, faces contorted, uncomfortable grunts plunked into the air like a chunk of cheese was being coughed up. Judgement of all kinds was exercised.

Among the truths and experiences described was the ability for active alcoholics being able to find each other at large gatherings. I am of the opinion that, in a group of 100 people, where only two substance abusers are in attendance, they will be attracted to each other like magnets. Somehow we know each other—hidden in plain sight, we seem to be able to sniff each other out.

In this context, during the meeting, I discussed the stench that an alcoholic’s pores emit the day after a binge. Teeth can be brushed, a shower can be taken, extensive grooming can have taken place, but still the stench emanates from every pore and fills the room.

Given the fact that alcoholism is as much about a mind compromised by a disease as it is about the substance, it occurred to me spontaneously, during the meeting, that the attraction of alcoholics to one another is based on our ability to smell the stench of a toxic disease leaving the pores of a peer’s soul.

How does this relate to grace and compassion? Read part two next week.

This has been a guest post by Michael D.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

My name is Michael. My last drink came on November 22, 1988. I am honored to be asked to contribute some thoughts about my experiences as a sober individual to this website.

I think I will pick a few themes and write down my impressions for a while. With a little luck, they may seem cogent and linear. If not, you will get a front row seat into what it is like to live inside my head 24 hours a day. Either way, a helmet is strongly suggested. (You are on your own for snacks.)

Are You Done Yet?

Whether or not you drink is none of my business. I know that seems to fly in the face of recovery “common sense,” but that is the truth. That is how I was raised in recovery.

My sponsors were unafraid of my drinking or my dying. That is not to say they did not care. They cared deeply. They spent countless hours with me explaining and re-explaining. But they also understood their role in my recovery. They could only point the way. They knew that my recovery was beyond their power and that I had to learn how to be responsible for it.

I know that word can be scary. I hated it. “Responsible” (Response – Able) simply means the ability to respond appropriately to a situation. You are not done drinking until you are done drinking. For some it happens all at once, for others it takes multiple tries. Most die. That is not a typo. MOST DIE. Most people get dead from alcoholism.

Why not me? I don’t really know. I can tell you that I put my entire being into my recovery to the best of my ability. At the end of the 12 Step process, I had no more secrets and I had discussed myself entirely with another human being.

About one month after that the pain inside me, the one that was causing me to pray to die everyday and had been a constant travel companion for several years had gone away. I looked at my self in the mirror and what I saw in that moment was OK. I think I even said it to myself out loud.

I was dumbfounded. Something had changed in me and I didn’t do it. If I could have done it, I would have done so long ago, just for the sheer embarrassment that my life was. That sucking void of pain was gone.

They say 10 – 12% of the population has trouble with drugs or alcohol. So conservatively, out of every 1000 people, 100 are addicted. Of those 100, 10-15 make to treatment. Of those 10-15, 5 have long term sobriety. Five people out of every 1000 recover. That is less the 1%, one-half of one percent to be precise.

If you are sober, you are a walking, talking miracle because most don’t make it. If I were you, I would stay in the life boat…but your mileage may vary.

It’s none of my business.

Grace

If you asked me today if I believed in God, my knee-jerk answer would be “no.” After another moment, my curiosity would kick in and the “clarifying questions” would start. My sponsors were — and are — cut from the same cloth: details matter, words means things, the Steps are about specifics and the more specific the information provided, the clearer an answer can be provided.

So my next question may be “What God are you talking about?” If you mean “God as a guy?” No. That is not to say I am an Atheist or Agnostic. So what do I believe in? Grace.

What is that you say?

Grace is the idea that the healing is already done and all we are waiting for is your awareness. Grace is the idea that there is a “Force” of some sort that is present and that can account for circumstances occurring that no reasonable explanation of science or medicine can cover.

Grace is the atmosphere that Recovery breathes when the miraculous happens. Grace means the field is tilted towards healing — which seems strange when you think of the vast numbers of alcoholics who get dead.

What if I told you that most don’t recover because deep down they don’t feel worthy of their own recovery? That belief takes more people out than anything else. Unlovable, unforgivable, unworthy, broken, not worth the effort…and many more negative beliefs. People wear these things like a lead coat that shields them from harm. I know. I’m a 40 Long.

Grace has the ability to find you in places you least expect it. That is its nature – its natural state. Grace is not something you receive, it is something you already are. Grace is not something you earn. Grace is not an unmerited gift or favor. It is something you already are.

Truth never hurts. Resistance to the truth can be painful – even deadly. You can deny it, you can try to hide from it, run away from it….but its presence is constant.

Wende F. would say, “You’re God’s Grace walking around on two legs…get used it.” I don’t know about the God part, but at least I have a word to loosely hang on the Higher Power

Grace and Cause and Effect

I recently read Zen Spot #36 – Mindfulness, Mediation, Autopilot and the Internal Gyroscope on this website. If you have not, I highly recommend it. Why? Because it is description of the practical application Twelve Steps used in everyday life covered, in a five minute read.

What makes the essay all the more wonderful is that it is applied at a time when its use is most difficult — when the person was ashamed and afraid. I know the writer has had a personal transformation through the Steps.

How? One sentence: “I chose to sit.” In the face of an urge to run or avoid, he chose to sit and face the fear. It was not just heroic—for an alcoholic, it is miraculous! It brought tears to my eyes because I have had similar experiences happen in my life. This is how Grace has worked in my life. I did not know it at the time. I was too busy living in that moment of tension and indecision.

We think that we “work” the Twelve Steps, but that is not accurate. We surrender to the Twelve Steps and those principles slowly heal and transform us in ways we can see and ways we cannot. What we “think” is happening, and what is actually happening can be two very different things.

My sponsor would smile and say, “See, Mike! Just like a told you. God’s workin’ even when we don’t know He is. That’s what Grace is! The healing is already done—always has been done. All we are waiting for is your awareness.” The sitting was not the cause of the awareness, it was the effect.

Your Answers Are Seeking You

Try not to limit where your sources of truth come from. Sometimes they will appear when you least expect it and have, seemingly, stopped looking.

I will give you an example. I personally think that the 12 and 12 of AA is some of Bill Wilson’s most inspired writing. In this context, during my first year I went to an AA meeting on the last day of the month, which meant it was a Tradition Meeting. There was a soft groan in the room when the group realized Tradition four was to be discussed. My thoughts were far more profane.

On the first page, Bill reeled me in, though: “Children of Chaos, we have defiantly played with every brand of fire, only to emerge unharmed and, we think, wiser. These very deviations created a vast process of trial and error, which, under the Grace of God has brought us the very place we stand today…We saw that the group, like the individual must eventually conform to whatever principles would guarantee survival. We had discovered that there was perfect safety of trail and error.” (12 and 12 pg. 146)

Seems contradictory to what I was writing about people getting dead, right?

That’s what I said. Isn’t drinking trial and error? Yes, but there is a major distinction.

As it says in the Big Book, AA is assuming the reader wants to stop – i.e., stay sober, stay in the lifeboat. The Big Book talks about the thought that we are like normal people (non-alcoholics) has to be smashed. (BB, pg.30) We had to concede to our innermost selves that we were alcoholic. THIS IS THE FIRST STEP IN RECOVERY.

Either you are done or you are not. From the stand point of recovery, if you stay in the lifeboat – all else will eventually, usually through pain, frustration and futility, lead us to surrender to the relief Step Work can provide.

Bill’s larger point is that it is practice not perfection. Errors are built in. We are human. We must test our skills and limits. The Steps allow us to grow spiritually and allow others to see that growth. In the lifeboat is one life, back in the water with the sharks is another. They are not even remotely similar. Not even close.

Normie’s vs Alcoholics

“Normal” drinkers are a different class, order, genus, species and family from Alcoholics. The most important difference is this: For normal drinkers, the decision to ingest alcohol is an act — an act no more important than having fish or beef or which shirt to wear to work.

For alcoholics, drinking is a Consciousness – not an act. With that consciousness comes a unique set of beliefs, behaviors and rituals. The ingestion of alcohol is embedded in the very ether of that consciousness. We are creatures and servants to it. And if one is not actually drinking, there usually is some sort of fixation on the moment of its return into the system. There is no making one of the other. Not possible. Once you have the alcoholic consciousness, the only solution is total abstinence or death.

I am not the same man I was November 22, 1988. That man no longer exists. That man will always suffer. That man will always be afraid. That is the mystery of it for me. One day I was drinking, the next day I was not. I don’t know why. Why that day? There was no shining light or voice of God, only the thought that I was going to have to go through life without medication. The trudge had begun.

Respect Others and their Path

I can remember a night when I had attended a meeting in my sponsor’s truck. I do not remember the details of the meeting other than the beautiful newcomer who sat directly in my sight line. My sponsor was sitting about ten people to my left. After the meeting, when we got to the truck, I jumped in the back. He stepped into the driver’s seat, smoking his Lucky Strike No Filter, then he stepped back out, looked at me and said, “Not until she has completed all 12 Steps, Mike.” With that the truck started and he drove away.

When we reached a coffee shop, I pressed him further on this “rule.” (This was important – I was in lust!) After a few minutes of this, it was obvious that Steve had grown tired and I was not getting his point. Finally, much too loudly for my comfort, Steve said to me, “Mike, am I understanding you correctly? Are you trying to explain to me why your PENIS is more important than her sobriety?” Sponsorial Five-Finger-Death Punch applied to my ego, I understood.

People get dead from this disease.

Meditation

I am a busy guy, mentally and physically. It is very difficult to sit and quiet my “mind.” It is still difficult now. It was damn near impossible in early sobriety. I had so much energy running through me that to try and “sit” would cause great anxiety. I would fail miserably and feel like I was doing it wrong.

Fortunately, my sponsor asked me some very important questions: When does your brain shut off? What brings you joy? What are you doing when “time flies?” I wasn’t sure what that had to do with my problem, but I told him – running, hitting golf balls, hockey, putting my earphones and playing the guitar, going for a long drive in the car, even cleaning the bathroom. “That’s meditation. Meditation is not a place to go to, it is a state where you can exist in this moment without your self-critic doing play-by-play. Find out what shuts your brain off and go there.”

Stay In the Lifeboat

If you do not ingest alcohol, you cannot get drunk. Simple. Maybe too simple.

Drunks like to complicate things to the point of ridiculousness. Do not drink under any and all conditions. That’s what I mean by “Stay In the Lifeboat.” Sobriety brings with it an infinite number of ways to get help. Once we drink, those options begin to vanish. Not because they are unavailable, but because the shame of “failing” makes people run. Some don’t make it back.

My sponsor used to call me a rock head. I was stubborn, obstinate and refused to concede points I did not agree with. Although I frustrated him, my sponsor respected that part of me. He once told me, “Mike, once God turns that same rock-headedness of yours toward sobriety, you could stay sober a really long time.” He was right. No drinks or drugs under any and all conditions. We face what we face in the lifeboat. We fear what we fear in the lifeboat.

It will be 30 years in November. If I can do it, anyone can do it. I’m not that smart and not that brave and don’t have that much heart. But, unlike the cowardly lion who turns and dives out the window, I have learned to stand and wait for the smoke and scary voice to pass. I cannot take credit for that. I was taught how to do that. I stood shaking, staring at the Wizard while my sponsor was talking about fear and the compulsion that would “make you set yourself on fire”. Not that day. The Wizard could never produce on his threats. He was relying on me to carry that out on myself. It was never the same again after that day. Never had the same intensity because it had a name and a face now. It was me. This gives you a little context now of why I found Zen Spot #36 so interesting. He didn’t stand and face it, he sat. Strong spiritual work, anchored in the Steps and a faith in the process. The result was the same. The smoke vanished and there we were – In the lifeboat.

Gratitude

In closing, I would like to thank my brothers and sisters in recovery for being the walking, talking miracles they are. People who shared their raw selves with me and, in doing so, gave me hope. Your not supposed to be here. The fact that you still are must mean that you are here for a reason. You may want to find out exactly what that is. Until then, I will be here in the lifeboat listening to this new song a heard about 57 times in a row. Suck the nectar out of life and share your new found loves with others. They will share theirs with you. Oh, and one more thing…Everything I just wrote down could be wrong.

Blessings!

This has been a guest post by Michael M.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

Hammurabi

Apologies can have an almost otherworldly power. To reach out, after having committed an error, recognizing that your behavior caused pain, can bring about a rare intimacy. Too, reaching out can result in Hammurabi chewing off an equal portion of whatever. The unpredictability is excruciating. Walk into an apology with your face or loins covered and your sincerity can be questioned. Arrive defenseless and the bleeding could be profuse and extended.

Nine

Among the rationale for making amends during AA’s ninth step, as far as I am concerned, is the humbling pain one must endure as forgiveness is requested. If done correctly and thoughtfully, with the desire to do whatever is necessary to make amends at the forefront, the executor’s desire to never repeat the process can be a resource from which to pull the strength not to indulge when the opportunity presents itself.

That said, every person whose forgiveness I requested acted with an astonishing grace. My loins were sincerely exposed. None punted.

Abscesses and my memory

I’ve written of blackouts. Weeks of blackouts. Time given away, and taken back spontaneously, years after, when a memory flashes back, bringing with it remorse that I thought was gone.

Flashbacks bring reflexive facial contortions. The taste of an abscess bubble bursting on my gums is less bitter. Sometimes my head shakes back and forth spontaneously and automatically even before the memory arrives.

Abscesses and other people’s memories

The problem with a fearless and thorough accounting of one’s behavior is that many of the aggrieved don’t remember the grievance and, when approached, offer only a quizzical look. That said, in my case, almost everybody possessed a memory deserving of an apology for which I had no corresponding flashback. No matter.

The dogs

The latest boomerang to fly out of the dark and land at my feet concerned a client from twenty years ago. The indiscretion will go unnamed, but the compulsion to appropriately debit and credit the metaphysical balance sheet became overwhelming. An email was drafted. A phone call was pondered. Neither was executed.

I knew he wouldn’t remember and I knew he would forgive me. Of these two facts, I am absolutely sure.

Forgiveness for the things I can’t remember found at the heart of the things I can remember. As the boomerangs continue to land at my feet, with this man in particular, my certainty in his grace allows me to forgive myself.

This has been a guest post by DharmaMechanic.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

Interracial

I married an African American woman. While dating, I was welcomed into her family and introduced to Black culture. And, for the politically correct in the audience, be assured that there is a black culture that is embraced and defended by the, well, black culture. Pursuant to full disclosure, I am white — bright white. My wife refers to my “tribe” — her words — as being comprised of “ish” people: Irish, English, Scottish, Swedish, Danish, etc. Further, I was not raised around many African Americans.

The learning curve wasn’t so much steep as it was broad. It was like having played baseball on a traditional field all my life and realizing that the field of all cultures is played with four pitchers and twelve outfields, in a 360 degree circle. That said, once you know the rules of the game, and can read the third base coach’s signs, sheer bliss is always nearby.

My black family and potato salad

If a friend of African descent invites you to a picnic, or a family gathering, and you want to have a little fun, remark about how the homemade potato salad tastes almost as good as the stuff you bought at the supermarket. I should have prefaced this suggestion by recommending that you dress like a baseball catcher, with a chest protector, shin guards, face mask and a protective cup, because stuff will go sideways quickly.

Heads explode. Old women will throw whatever is close at hand — a ketchup bottle, soda cans, whole baked chickens. An eighty-six year old woman once grabbed a hot dog off a red-hot grill and whipped it at me. Grown men will shush you, trying to protect you from their relatives. You’d think you’d just mashed a sweet potato pie in their grandmother’s face.

Good times. Pun intended.

My black family and The Beastie Boys

A second suggestion, if you aren’t up to demands of a potato salad shit-storm, is to offer a lesson in the history of Hip Hop. In particular, stand firm on the observation that The Beastie Boys were the first true rap act. This observation doesn’t involve anyone’s mother or grandmother, so the reaction is different. Someone might actually throw a paper-plateful of potato salad residue at you, but they’ll probably just tell you you’re an idiot and walk away.

It’s fun, but make sure the group loves you and trusts you first. Besides, I’m an idiot.

Sponsors and the Twelve Steps

Alcoholics Anonymous recommends the use of a sponsor as a newcomer is introduced to the Twelve Steps. A sponsor acts like a guide through rough mountain terrain, offering directions, guidance, support and, where necessary, criticism. That said, there’s no perfect sponsor and their opinions vary widely. Some are hard core and unyielding. Others are analytical. Others are touchy-feely. It’s the hard core sponsors that are problematic and, that, most often, provide the best rationalization for a newcomer to start drinking again.

Power corrupts. Heads explode. Fingers fly. Potato salad all over again.

The night a Buddhist monk called me to disagree

I started drawing Dharma Wheels in 2013. Within twelve months, I had created over 600. Yes, 600. What some people think is compulsive, I think is focused. What others think is manic, I think of as energetic, knowing all the while that they are correct.

Some of the wheels were even good.

In 2013, I committed to posting one Dharma Wheel on Facebook each day in the coming year. Wanting people to know, I reached out to people across the globe via email to let them know about the project — monks, yoga instructors, practitioners, media people, etc.

One night, my phone rang and a monk in Detroit called to tell me that the Dharma Wheels were drawn incorrectly — that they should have twelve spokes, not eight. Now, while I may not listen to priests, I definitely listen to Buddhist monks. That said, throughout life, after I listen, I often respond. This case was no exception. Ask my sponsor.

I remarked about my research of the correlation between The Eightfold Path and the eight spokes of the Dharma Wheel. The monk wouldn’t accept my posit, as if I was questioning his potato salad recipe. Having made no progress, and after having listened respectfully, we politely hung up when he was finished.

Fully believing he knew more than me, I was confused.

I’m a simple dude

On January 1, 2014, with thirteen years of sobriety, I began to post my artwork daily and it was met with incredible approval, including from Buddhists of all backgrounds — and the approval was gratifying. Detroit’s finest never left my mind, not because I felt vindicated but because I felt true respect. He was the person who took the time to call and teach, and the lesson was hard. He’d gotten his metaphysical crowbar underneath my manhole cover because, for whatever reason, he cared, and because he would not compromise his viewpoint.

Over the course of writing my Zen Spot essays, their mission, motivation and inspiration have evolved. In particular, the process has introduced me to my own soul dirt. In comparison to what I read in other Buddhist blogs or what I witness when around other practitioners, my lack of commitment to a pure path can appear to border on filthy defiance. I’m not clean, small, quiet, flowery or calm. I get angry. Compassion comes hard. I loathe dogma.

Despite all these things, I know, in my heart, I’m moving in the right direction. — and I believe there are a million other people just like me, all trying to get to the light. This essay is for those people. Especially those new to the Twelve Steps. Before I got to my current destination, I worked them with a hard core sponsor, and it hurt like hell—but it worked.

I believe in the Four Noble Truths. I practice the Noble Eightfold Path. I walk the Middle Way.

That’s it.

This has been a guest post by DharmaMechanic.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

President Trump has declared the opioid epidemic a national health emergency, addiction experts compare it with the AIDS epidemic, educators grapple with drugs in schools, and parents lie awake at night dreading a 3:00 a.m. phone call.

Still, the body count rises. There were more than 63,000 drug-related deaths in 2016, up 21 percent from the year before and the biggest one-year rise in three decades.

This may be an opportune time to pause, step back and ask whether we are fully utilizing all the tools at our disposal.

David H. Rosmarin, an assistant professor at Harvard Medical School and the director of the Spirituality and Mental Health Program at McLean Hospital in Belmont, Mass, posits that spirituality may be one such instrument.

In a December 2017 Wall Street Journal article, Mr. Rosmarin wrote that in his first six months as a pre-doctoral psychology intern at McLean Hospital, he was approached by at least 10 patients asking to discuss their problems not in psychological terms but in spiritual ones.

Mr. Rosmarin is not a theologian. He is a practicing Orthodox Jew and clinical scientist. He smilingly credits his yarmulke with conferring an air of authenticity.

Although rarely mentioned in thousands of media reports about the current opioid crisis, the idea of a nexus between spirituality and psychiatry is not new.

Carl Jung called alcoholism “a spiritual thirst …. for wholeness: the union with God.”

In 1950 Jung wrote that a “nodding acquaintance with the theory and pathology of neurosis is totally inadequate, because medical knowledge of this kind is merely information about an illness, but not knowledge of the soul that is ill.”

A crusty former addict of my acquaintance declares that the next doctor who claims to have cured an addict will be the first. He concedes that addicts suffer severe mental distress (“dis-ease”), but favors “soul sickness” to disease.

A prominent local psychiatrist, now deceased, working in the addiction field once confided to me that the medical profession “knows (nothing) about addiction.”

The issue then is whether education, therapy, treatment, needle exchanges, Narcan and the rest merely treat the symptoms of the “dis-ease” while the “soul that is ill” inexorably sinks deeper into John Bunyan’s “slough of despond.”

Mr. Rosmarin cites a 2014 study which concluded that “religion and spirituality have the ability to promote, or damage, mental health.” It urged “an increased awareness of religious matters by practitioners in the mental health field as well as ongoing attention in psychiatric research.”

A 2015 review examining over 3000 scholarly articles for the International Journal of Emergency Mental Health and Human Resilience found a “positive effect” of religion/spirituality on a variety of health outcomes, including: “……lower rates of suicide, less use, abuse, and substance dependence (emphasis added), greater well-being, and reported happiness.”

The hope, meaning, purpose and connection to the divine that a spiritual life provides apparently can serve as a resource to cope with the mental distress that triggers flight into addiction.

McLean Hospital asks incoming psychiatric patients if they wish to discuss spirituality. If yes, they are then asked how is their spirituality relevant to their symptoms and treatment and ‘the conversation typically takes off from there.”.

When nothing is working, what have we got to lose?

This article was written by a friend of the Urchin who practices law, and has a long-term interest in the legal and scientific study and treatment of substance abusers and substance abuse issues. He is a regular contributor to articles pertaining to these topics.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

Auto-pilot and gyroscopes

It happens, from time to time, that a memory returns from an alcohol-fueled blackout. There’s no telling what will jar the memory loose. Sometimes, it’s like walking into a wall. At other times, the memory fades in slowly, over the course of a minute. Even after fifteen years of sobriety, it still happens once in a while.

At its worst, while still drinking, I would end up passed-out on a park bench, in a nice business suit. It happened in New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Miami, Washington D.C and other cities. Perhaps my physical size was the only thing that kept me safe. Predators must have moved on to easier targets. The police ignored me as well.

It is a time I never want to revisit.

Washington Square, PHL

Walking from corner to corner, at about 9 pm on a recent Friday night, on my way to an art gallery, my memory opened up. This rarely happens in Philadelphia. My auto-pilot and internal gyroscope could always help me find my way through my hometown without having to sleep on a bench.

This time was different.

Slow

I don’t shuffle, but my foot speed is noticeably slower than in the life I have since forgotten. That night, I was taking my time, too. It was a beautiful evening. As I passed a particular park bench, my memory faded into a time having crawled across the sidewalk of rectangular flagstone, until I could pull myself onto the bench. To the best of my estimation, the year was 1998. I had probably been at Dirty Franks, a bar about twelve blocks away, which falls in line with my modus operandi of walkabouts while living in oblivion. No recollection of the stroll has returned.

The bench

As the flashback fully returned, I stood looking down at the bench for a full minute. Shaking my head, I closed my eyes and swayed back and forth on unsteady feet. Shame accompanies these experiences no matter how much time has passed.

I chose to sit. Sobriety, and clarity, provided the option to choose. I further chose to take a breath, with my hands on my knees, in the dark, and make peace with the memory. The quiet was full of distant sirens, plates being cleared by waiters in a nearby restaurant and the sound of rubber tires turning on asphalt.

I imagined a space ship having departed some 5000 days before, disappearing into the blackness, only to return, unannounced, just minutes before. A guy about my size got out, sat down next to me and disappeared into nothingness.

This has been a guest post by DharmaMechanic.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin

The intersection

Traveling west on Vine Street, I ran a red light at the corner of Broad at about 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. Halfway through the intersection, I knew I was in trouble. The terror of such a mistake, in the moment before an impact, is hard to describe. Time slows down and speeds up simultaneously. The impact is expected .

There wasn’t an impact.

I sailed to the other side of Broad unscathed. Cars going north and south narrowly missed me. Pursuant to the time warp, the vehicles never slammed on their brakes or honked their horns. It all happened too quickly — everybody was safe—never having time to react.

Suspicion

Before I made it to the other side, I knew I had a problem with alcohol. In fact, I’d suspected a problem for about six months. My suspicions were confirmed as I crossed the double line on Broad Street.

I’d had two drinks, so I wasn’t blind. One’s accountability, however, is the same whether one drink or one fifth is involved. Drinking and driving had never been a problem to that point in my life— it just wasn’t my thing. Doesn’t matter.

A needle was awaiting thread.

Grace, karma, luck, coincidence, nothing or being ferried by an angel?

For the previous seven years— perhaps more—I’d done little to earn favor from the universe — always taking more than giving. And, while I understand that the idea of karma is much more than cause and effect, I fundamentally believe in cause and effect, especially since the negative effect caused by a negative action can bring considerable suffering. Simplistic, I know, but it works for me.

Looking back, I wonder why I didn’t kill somebody or myself. We were saved by inches and physics. The experience begs questions. What were the karma profiles of everybody involved? Those driving north and south? The pedestrians? Was it grace, karma, luck, coincidence, nothing or being ferried by an angel?

I threaded the needle.

When the eye of a needle is a threshold

I committed to change. It took me another year to stop drinking but I never got behind the wheel of a car again. With the help of my first sponsor I stopped altogether and, as of the essay, it’s been 5873 days.

When the eye of a needle is a tunnel

Things got harder for a long time. The metaphor of the light at the end of the tunnel being a train ended up being true. It took time to learn, though, that I’d been in the tunnel long before the needle was threaded.

Never coming out on the other side of the tunnel

Metaphors are sometimes inappropriate or ineffective. This is one of those times.

Coming out on the other side of the tunnel

It was grace, karma, luck, coincidence, nothing and being ferried by an angel that got me to the other side of Broad Street— because they’re all the same thing. Every time I cross that intersection I’m grateful.

With gratitude comes compassion. With compassion, anything is possible.

This has been a guest post by DharmaMechanic.

With Love,
The Recovering Urchin