Through the Red Door Blog

Reading Affirmations for the Inner Child by Rokelle Lerner, I came across this affirmation: “I belong to nature, and I live within the order of nature.”

Growing up in the country in Ireland just before a neighbor bought a combine harvester and before television, I loved the hands-on work in nature. Dad dug the potatoes, and I picked them, put them in the bucket to bring home. I’ve walked behind my uncle as he cut the corn with a scythe, picked up an armful and then took a handful and tied it. When possible, I took my brother’s bicycle and rode around the country as the hay was being cut and I loved the aroma of fresh cut hay. Animals died, stray animals were shot or drowned. Such was life in the country of the time. 

I do not recall thinking of myself as a self. Instead, I knew only too well I was “Annie D’s son” and I had to live up to that image – a happy, loving family. I was different from others but not in a healthy manner.

Then I went to seminary and got my head into books. I became acquainted with Jack Daniels et al. I got a motorcycle, then a car and these instruments of travel put distance between me and nature.

As a priest, I have celebrated Mass at the seaside, on a rock on the side of a mountain, by a stream or river. I got out into nature, but it was only a location, a place with which I no longer had that sense of belonging. Somehow, Jack Daniels and friends were hiding me from myself and nature.

As Lerner points out in her Affirmation “I did not learn about my body and facts about the natural world. Nature reproduces, but sex was a shameful secret in my family.” There were a lot of secrets in the family, and I learned early not to talk about the family to outsiders. We were a churchgoing, hard-working family.

 “You are a child of the Universe, no less than the stars and the trees. You have a right to be here.” This line from the poem Desiderata was something I loved to quote to clients in counseling but in private it made me cry. I did not belong. I was an outsider. I had secrets which I could no longer tell the trees.         

Then came recovery. Initially, it was a long slow process because I couldn’t admit to myself the secrets I spent years burying. Living up to the expectations of another was difficult to change.

Finally, after some four years of a dry-drunk, working the program for all the wrong reasons- just to look good to others especially my boss- I hit bottom. I admitted I am an alcoholic, I am powerless over alcohol, I have an addictive personality, I am an adult child of a dry drunk,  and my life had become unmanageable. What a weight to be lifted off my shoulders. Now what? The journey of recovery had just begun.

Everything I learned over the years had lodged in my head. I could give a good talk, teach, make you think you knew me and all the while hiding, even from myself, in plain sight. Now, all that I learned was trickling down into my heart, and, like the Skin Horse in The Velveteen Rabbit, I was beginning to feel love and loved.

“I belong to nature, and I live within the order of nature.” “I am a child of the Universe no less than the trees and the stars; I have a right to be here.” I became free to be who I am, free to be, become and feel alive, free to splash in the ocean and the ocean of emotions within me. 

Today, I love being in recovery, I love the feeling of being a child of God and a child of the Universe. I love to drive into the swamps and smell the sensuality of this land, to see the variety of animals, to feed an alligator from a boat. I love to see, to hear, to smell, to taste and to touch nature and be alive again.

Séamus D is an Episcopal priest in recovery and lives in New Orleans

Three of us met for coffee a couple weeks ago, “alumni” from a noon AA meeting in a church basement where we had met many years ago when we first sought sobriety. We hadn’t been together for several years. We’d gone different ways and changed in that period, one had moved to an assisted living facility, one had a death in the family, the other had retired and was traveling.  But what we immediately saw was that through the years, each of us had continued a very active participation in the AA Program.

We shared recollections of our time spent at this particular “five days a week noon AA meeting”. Usually, all three of us were present. Thirty or so faithfully attended but sometimes that basement floor was packed. We recalled our early AA meetings, the people who reached out to us as newbies, the laughter and support freely given to us by all ... to all.  This was an open discussion meeting...topics on all subjects: our hurts and successes, stories of how folks had worked the Steps, phrases from the Big Book, the whole gaggle of topics you find at any AA open discussion meeting. We applauded anniversaries of others whether years or a day. We shared fun and laughter and a special sadness for people we knew and worked with who had tried the Program but didn’t make it.

Our reunion reinforced all we had found and learned and accepted. For us, the Program had become a way of living our day-to-day lives, alcohol-free, but just as importantly as a way of working through life itself. We recalled times of difficulties we had confronted as we aged—normal issues a recovering alcoholic-and all of us-face in our lives—and yet, and yet, for us, sobriety prevailed frankly because we worked at it each day and followed the discipline of the Steps and went to meetings where of course others were walking the same path.  

We recalled our Twelve Step work of reaching others—one was the father and grandfather sponsor of many, another worked through the court system, the third spoke through substance abuse programs and in hospitals.

We spoke of meetings in other countries. AA, we agreed, was much the same wherever it was, language didn’t seem to be much of a barrier, after all, the readings while in a different tongue were from the Big Book or the “12 and 12” so we three all said we could easily follow.

Yes, this reunion was a grand time of laughter and recalling days of our early years in the Program. It reaffirmed what we are called to do in Step Ten—our belief in the importance of continuing to “work the Steps” of Alcoholics Anonymous.

We closed our gathering as we did all those years in that noon AA meeting in that church basement...

God, grant us serenity to accept things we can’t change, courage to change what we can, and wisdom to know the difference...and keep us coming back for it really works if we keep working it.

Jim A, and for M and P, St X Noon

I lived in Seattle, Washington, for 44 years. I got sober in Seattle. Last fall I moved to Southern AZ to escape from the grey and the rain. This summer I returned for one month to visit family and friends. I didn’t expect to feel very different or see Seattle differently as it had only been10 months since I left.

I was lucky to have two very close friends who invited me to stay with them. Both were in neighborhoods I had not lived in. Staying with friends for two weeks each was wonderful and challenging.  I brought many things to feel at home and for the most part it was good and yet I saw my former city in different ways. It seemed that maybe it wasn’t ‘my’ Seattle anymore.

After 10 months in the desert, I have two great home groups and was learning to love the desert and cactus. I understood why friends who had visited me when I lived in Seattle from other parts of the country would say “It’s so green here!” It is! And the trees are so tall, not like the short Palo Verdes in AZ. The noises were different than I remember. Seattle is a big city so more sirens, more traffic noises, less bird noises and many, many more airplanes flying overhead to the airport.

In both of my friends’ houses there was liquor. Both are normies and I never thought much about it because they rarely drink (maybe they do when I am not around). I house sat for each of them for 10 days while they went away. While in the kitchen looking for something or in the basement looking for where the laundry was, I would see a cabinet of liquor or a wine cellar. I would find myself looking at the bottles as if I had never seen liquor before. Each time I asked myself if the bottles looked interesting to me. I was a stranger in a city that used to be mine. Before I got sober it would have been a great idea to have some? A lot? Instead, I found myself looking and then closing the cabinet and then didn’t really think about it until I was starting to write this blog.

I got sober in Seattle 34 years ago. My home groups were great, but most were still online from the pandemic and those that weren’t were not near me.  Thank goodness that my zoom meetings from AZ and from all around the country were still ones I could get to while in Seattle. I did get to spend time with my sponsor and that was a god send. In addition, my daily readings grounded me and when I felt out of sorts or unmoored, I would walk. I walked in familiar places with good friends and new places on my own. That’s where I talk to and experience God. Even though I was with so many good friends, I would be reminded that I am not alone.

The International AA convention was in Seattle when I was six months sober. It was the very first time I felt NOT ALONE in most of my life. Being back in Seattle, all I had to do was close my eyes and see myself in the Kingdome with 65,000 other recovering people. Seattle may not be where I live now, it may have changed some. I am so glad I went to visit, glad I could move anywhere and find AA, and glad that, one day at a time, a liquor cabinet doesn’t appeal to me.

In early recovery I heard this advice over and over: “Look for someone who has what you want, and ask them how they got it.” That was, I was told, also how to pick a sponsor. It’s funny looking back. I mean how does a really new newcomer know what someone has? Yes, you can hear a sense of humor or see who bathes regularly. But when I look around the rooms today it’s not always the shiny stars or fine talkers of AA who have what I want.

I’ve been thinking about this because this week I was trying to explain to a sponsee why she should do more step work. “I don’t drink and I don’t want to drink, and I’m really happy about that,” she told me. And I get that, but I tried to tell her that I want so much more than that from AA, and from of my life.

I want so much more than abstinence from alcohol. And I even want so much more than no more “jackpots”. I want the whole enchilada that I believe is possible: peace, serenity and joy (not daily happiness but real joy.) I also want great relationships: with husband, friends and colleagues. And a great relationship with my Higher Power and with myself.

But here’s where it gets tricky. Some of that good, changed life comes with longevity—more time in recovery equals more exposure to new ideas, concepts and layer upon layer of the Steps. But not for everybody. I still have to look around the rooms and ask myself, “Who has what I want?”

It’s possible to have 35 years of sobriety and be obese, angry, gambling, smoking or using some behavior or  “legal” substance and still be miserable. I see it and hear it. We share the rooms with folks who have been around a very long time and are miserable in marriage or on the job. That’s not the recovery I want for myself.

In some ways the pool gets smaller the further we go if we are committed to going all the way. What do you think about this? If you have been around a while what kind of recovery are you still working toward? I want deep change as much -- or more -- than I want long years. In a sense that is where my deep joy comes from—knowing there is some crazy character defect I didn’t even know I had two years ago, that I recognized in myself one year ago, and that I see gradually changing this summer. I’m in awe of that, and I can only want more.

Diane C, from Albany, New York

I don’t like driving mountain passes! For most of my adult life and almost all my sobriety, I lived in the Pacific Northwest where there are MANY mountain passes. I feel anxious going up, fooled in the small valleys in between, and so scared when going down those 6+% grades. It’s even worse if there are a lot of trucks.

Going through the mountains between Oregon and California on a trip got me thinking about how the difficult times in life and sobriety are like going through those mountain passes. Going up you can’t see where you are. It can be hard on the car, like it can be hard on the spirit. There are twists and turns that by the time you get used to them, they change. Some trucks go so slowly, and some cars go so fast. I find myself judging my progress against them. It’s like whatever I do in life—comparing and feeling out of control many times. At the top of the pass there is a vista, and things look very clear for a moment. But then it’s all downhill! And that can be as hard as the uphill climb, will it ever end, can I control my speed!

As I came out of the mountains into California, I saw Mt. Shasta brilliant in the sun! It was amazing and for many minutes the difficulty of the mountains was worth the view. As I got down to the flat of Interstate 5, I went through Yreka, CA. Soon I saw an exit sign for the upcoming exit. I knew I HAD to take it: Exit 770 - Easy St./Shamrock Rd!

I had to get to Easy Street—didn’t everyone want to live there? Would there be big houses and fancy cars in the driveways? Did folks look like they were always happy? Did their luck show on Shamrock Rd.? How could I live there?

What did I find? A rural road with few houses. Nothing special, no great signs of wealth and happiness. Then I remembered: Easy Street is a state of mind not a single place or destination. Probably the people who found their way to this place long ago, named the streets in the hope that for them it would come true—their life would be easy, and I’d like to think it did in their spirit; perhaps it kept them hopeful.

I smiled, got back on the freeway, and pulled over on the shoulder to take a picture of the sign so I could always remember. I can live on Easy Street any time I live in the present moment and embrace hope. That second step is my favorite. It’s the Hope step. This is an excerpt from my book—God Shots: Memories and Lessons, A life is Recovery. Libbie S., Sober Sisters Monday meeting Green Valley, AZ

In his book, Shattered Dreams, Martin Luther King wrote, “Our capacity to deal creatively with shattered dreams is ultimately determined by our faith in God…However dismal and catastrophic may be the present circumstances, we know we are not alone.”

At the age of nineteen, I entered the Novitiate of a religious congregation in the hope of becoming a priest and a missionary. During that year of relative silence, I decided that I wanted to go to Brazil, a new mission of the Congregation.

At the age of twenty-two, I began my final four years of formation in the study of the bible, theology, church history, etc. My dream or hope of being a priest never wavered. That is, until I met two good friends, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker and their friends. Oh, we had fun times at first but somewhere along the way I let go of who I thought I was and became someone I did not like and did not know how I got there.

I was elected to various committees; I was involved in the city in a number of charitable and wonderful programs including working in a shelter for those who were there because they could not stop drinking. One of them was a brilliant person and a professor but could not stop drinking. I felt sorry for him.

Then I was ordained. About six months before I was to fly to Brazil, I was offered an opportunity to continue studies and, from my low self-esteem position, this was an unexpected jolt. The egomaniac became alive. Continued studies was something I deserved, and the missions could just wait another year.

After a year of studies, and ongoing negative communication with my superior in Brazil, I refused to go to Brazil and, instead, came to Louisiana. At the end of that year, I relocated to California. It could be said I had become a drifter.

I was good at what I did – being a priest, a counselor and speaker – but the external “success” was a façade that buried the broken shattered glass within me. I had no idea who I was, where I was going, or what was going to happen to me. I not only felt alone, but I was also lonely and spiritually dead.

I left the active ministry, got married, and was employed in a hospital setting for teenage alcoholics and addicts. From my days on the streets in Dublin and teaching I had a good working knowledge of addiction. I also had taken a few college courses in addiction. I was the right person for this job!!!   

My Higher Power got tired of protecting me and, after a couple of months, I found myself telling my boss, “I think I have a drinking problem.” Two months later I requested time off to go to treatment. Neither of these two things had I planned.

Four and a half years of chaos followed during which time I got divorced, became a single, domicile, dad of my thirteen-month-old daughter and declared bankruptcy. Somehow or other I had my spiritual awakening. I began to listen to the wisdom of the older folks in the Fellowship and do what I had to do and do it for me.

I let go of the negative judgmental god of my childhood, came to believe in a Power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity; then returned my belief in God. From this beginning, I accepted the help in cleaning up the interior shattered glass. As I did so, I discovered I was not the only one with a hole in my heart, a shattered dream, shattered dreams. It was time to work the steps and then live them.

Life began to return. It was enriched by the diagnosis of depression which was finally treated along with the acknowledgement of my being an ACOA – a dry drunk. The behavior I had adopted in order to grow though childhood and adolescence continued into adulthood and was made more rigid by my addiction.

“Our capacity to deal creatively with shattered dreams is ultimately determined by our faith in God…However dismal and catastrophic may be the present circumstances, we know we are not alone.” 

Looking in the mirror I accepted that I am another human being who has made mistakes, who is living with an incurable disease. The promises for the future, due to living this program, became a reality, continue to be a reality, and my worst day today, is nothing compared to what it could have been and, more importantly, I am not alone.

 Keep coming back is a unique phrase to AA. It is not said in church. I keep coming back so as not to be alone and to be there for others.

My early days of “working the Program” brought changes to my life, some perhaps mundane—like my eating habits, being on time for dinner or picking up the kids, assisting with chores. You’ll know what I am talking about if you’ve really decided to quit drinking and work your way to that alcohol-free life.  

My appearance changed: I lost 40 or 50 pounds in my first six months in the Program. I could remember the events of the night before or remember to pick up that half-gallon of milk. My evening handwriting improved a bit but, alas, I never did have handwriting that pleased my 4th grade schoolteacher mother. Add some of your own “inebriate-trademarks.”

Thinking back to my alcoholic actions is painful but frankly I don’t want to forget them ‘cause I don’t want to repeat them. Come on, be honest—think of some of your gala flip-flops. But if you can’t recall any, listen to that next “drunk-a-log” lead for that’ll bring back your own days of rage. (I like a drunk-a-log occasionally to remind me of those days, I grimace and recall my own episodes, and recall when the Higher Power reached out His arms for me took me to the Beginners’ Meeting at Oak Street.)

I changed habits with friends—people I’d come to know and socialize with. Take dinner parties: now we ask when dinner is being served and arrive no more than 20 minutes 30 max prior to that time. We leave shortly after dessert. Early on, I’d simply decline an invitation since I was “sick” (which was true, “sick of my alcoholism”). I stopped all “after work” gatherings, club activities, stuff like that, any activities where alcohol was a featured part of the event.

I was focused on dealing with my disease and ridding myself of its harm and these changes enabled me to come to understand and work the Program of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I suppose occasionally I wondered if friends noticed, but soon I realized they were busy with their own lives. But there was a Saturday morning, when, in my front yard a friend, a good friend, a neighbor, Howard, said to me,” I know you don’t drink. I didn’t know you were that bad.” I looked him in the eye, and I said, “Well, Howard, how bad does it have to get before one does something about his drinking?”

Yes, the damage we cause to others and ourselves can be deep and dark, but always remember that through the gift of Christ our Higher Power, the Program gives us a way to make life “happy, joyous and free.”

–Jim A, St. X Noon, Cincinnati, Springboro / Franklin Noon

My daughter and I were as close as any mother and daughter could be.  Therapists would say we were co-dependent. We probably were. I was a single mother for most of her growing up and sober since she was 2 ½. Her dad was a good father and we shared custody well.

In my early sobriety, Rachel taught me many things that I needed to learn to stay sober. Some included not worrying so much (she thought that was silly) and asking for help easily whenever she needed help. I often thought she was teaching me more than I was teaching her. I even wrote a book about what she taught me – God Shots: Memories and Lessons, A life in Recovery.

Our perhaps too close relationship continued though her college years and beyond. She married and had a great job and I noticed that she needed to be separate more and more. That is totally understandable and yet I was not prepared to let go. I wanted to cling to the way we were. When the grandbaby came, I thought I would be there and help daily but that’s not what she wanted. She set boundaries I didn’t like. I thought and kept saying - “I ‘m just trying to help”. Really, I wasn’t listening to her and how she wanted to be a parent.

In my home, two gifts from Rachel were very special to me. One was a ceramic leaf plate that she had made in grade school, and one was an icon of Mary that she brought me from a trip to Turkey she had taken.  One month both of those gifts fell and broke within weeks of each other. I was heartbroken and it seemed that they were saying to me that our relationship was broken for good. I kept the pieces that broke and tried not to think about them.

While doing a tenth step sometime later I had to admit that I owed my daughter an amends. I needed to apologize for the intrusive ways I had been acting and for not respecting her boundaries. Slowly, we have forged a new relationship. Not all of it is to my liking but I have learned that I want to know and love my daughter for who she is now, not for the little girl who needed my help so often.

I learned about the Japanese technique Kintsugi, where broken porcelain is visibly repaired with gold. The repair is a symbol and showed that the brokenness was still there, but it had been repaired with gold so that the break would be honored and acknowledge.

I bought a kit to learn Kintsugi. I used it to repair the gifts my daughter had given me, and I had broken. They remind me of the healing that has happened through my willingness to admit may part, make amends, and change my behavior as a living amends. The pieces are more beautiful to me now than they were before. That which was broken can be healed and remembered without forgetting.

Libbie S.

This invitation is repeated at every AA meeting I’ve attended. I find it as important as “Work the Steps” for it is a sharp reminder to all of us whether you’re a 30-day person or the 30-year person: our sobriety is dependent on the quality of the way we “work the Program” and central to that admonishment is to “keep coming back.”

We’d moved to an assisted living facility, and I was looking for a nearby meeting and found one. The first time I walked in, struggling with my walker to cross unfamiliar bumps in the sidewalk and doorway, those already there greeted me as a friend, a friend. No questions, just “Welcome, git ya some coffee? Where ya from?” No hesitation, just smiles, handshakes. A warmth filled that room. I practically cried.  They had their own program format, easy to follow for after enough meetings at various places you sorta get a feel of what’s up next.  After the meeting I shook hands with a guy also from Cincinnati where we had lived for over 60 years. We exchanged which meetings we’d frequented and names of folks we’d run into, we both knew one of the granddads of Cincinnati AA. As we said goodbye, he said, guess what, “Come on back next week!” He wasn’t just being polite. He simply said what most of us hear when leaving an AA meeting, “Come on back!”

New in the Program we may have been rather relaxed about a regular attendance, sorta like “Not tonight, I went last night, don’t feel like it tonight,” or “No way...got a lot on my mind.” Then one night, you hear a lead of someone who “didn’t” keep coming back and she slipped back to “them old sick days” followed with guilt and sadness of her failure ... but she soon returned and was of course, welcomed.

The very words of the Steps tell us why to keep coming back: “Continue to take...” (#10); “Seek through prayer...” (#11); and “Practice these principles...” (#12).

We must always remember our ego is watching for a chance to drag us back, telling us “You’re fine, all that time at meetings, you don’t need to go any more.” Our ego never leaves us and seeks to take advantage of missteps by us.

And that brings us to the second part of “why “we need to keep coming back: because one of our charges in recovery is to carry the message to others who still suffer. And where else other than at a beginners AA meeting are you going to have the opportunity to do that. And if you have only a short period of sobriety and are a “newbie” yourself, what better place can you find folks trying to do the same thing.

So, keep coming back, it works if you continue to work it and as you carry this message of hope to others still suffering.

-Jim A., St X Noon Cincinnati and Springboro/Franklyn Wednesday, Noon

In the November GRAPEVINE of 1961, Bill W. wrote: “We did not always come closer to our wisdom by reason of our virtues; our better understanding is often rooted in the pains of our former follies. Because this has been the essence of our individual experience, it is also the essence of our experience as a fellowship.”

“I wish I had never…” “If only I could go back and do it again I would.” “I don’t know if I can trust myself because I…” I can’t believe that I used to…” “I have no idea why I did what I was told I did. I have no memory of it but the knowledge of it just pains me.”

Our past can be a weight that will one day be the death of us, or we can use our past experiences to help ourselves and others because we have learned from our past mistakes, our past failures, our past guilt and shame.

My first moral inventory of myself was as shallow as a pancake. I wrote what I thought the Unit Chaplain would expect and I could get away with. He accepted it and I got away with it—for a short time.

As time passed, I knew I had not done a “fearless and moral inventory of myself” and, to be honest, I didn’t want to do one. First of all, much of my drinking was blackout drinking and so I had only a few—but serious—memories of my drinking life. What I did remember were the so called “good times.”

Once I began to make amends and to ask classmates and some friends about my drinking in their presence I got a shock. I didn’t want to hear what I was being told. Me? Me, a priest? I did that? I said that? Yes. That was me under the influence of alcohol.

There was no way I was going to share with anyone what I was hearing about myself. If I felt guilty and ashamed while I was drinking, I was doubly guilty and ashamed now that I was not drinking and not yet sober.

For almost the first five years in the fellowship I did everything right for all the wrong reasons. I read the Big Book so I could quote it at meetings; I went to meetings, quoted the Big Book, and talked, and talked. Then, one day, someone loved me enough to tell me publicly: “Séamus, shut your mouth, take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth. God gave you two ears to listen twice as much as you talk.”

I listened. I listened and realized that being a priest had nothing to do with my addiction. I was as human as every other person in the rooms of A.A. I made similar mistakes, lost my values, wasted my money, went “looking for love in all the wrong places.” “Oh, Lord it’s hard to be humble, when you [think} you’re perfect in every way.”

This humpy dumpy fell off the wall and cracked. I began to see myself through the eyes of others, which was different from the manner in which I saw myself. I was not “that bad.” Then “I’m not bad.’ ‘I am a good person who made some terrible mistakes.” What I am guilty of I did under the influence of alcohol or other drugs. I used, misused, and abused and became addicted to alcohol to hide from myself and thought I was also hiding from others.

“We did not always come closer to our wisdom by reason of our virtues; our better understanding is often rooted in the pains of our former follies.” Today, my wisdom comes from “Let me share this with you…” “I remember when…” “I was told that I…” “If it were not for my past, I could not make sense out of what you are sharing with me.”

My past has become a foundation stone. I started on shaky ground and almost every step I took was a minor earthquake. As the aftershocks stop, flowers, grass, trees, grow through the asphalt and Nature takes back her life. As I listened to the rumbles of my life, I learned to embrace the shaking of my foundation and appreciate that these rumblings would help to keep me in check and grow as long as I shared them with others.

I listened, learned, reviewed, learned to work the Steps and Live the program and, in so doing, I gained the knowledge to ask God to grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the Wisdom to know the difference.   

Séamus D.

Séamus is a retired Episcopal priest in the Diocese of New Orleans.