Through the Red Door Blog

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.

In long-term recovery we often lean back into moments from our early recovery that help and sustain us. In my book, “Out of the Woods,” I write about some of these experiences. Here is one of mine:

When I was very new to the rooms of recovery I heard a woman share in a meeting in a way that made me truly want to be deeply in recovery. The woman was telling the group that the day before her daughter had been hurt—hit by a car in front of their home. The woman said that she got into the ambulance with her daughter and she began to pray that her daughter would be okay and she was praying that God would fix this situation.

And then, she said, she stopped and she changed her prayer. Instead she began to pray, “God help me to get out of your way.”

I was stunned by her words. Just stunned that anyone could have that prayer come to mind in such a scary situation. I knew in that moment that it was recovery working in that woman’s life. And I knew then that I wanted what she and those Twelve-Step people had. I understood that what this woman did came from being in this program.

That was more than 30 years ago and that moment of realization and revelation has stayed with me. I still want that. It’s why I continue my recovery.

God help me to get out of your way.

Diane C.

The May 18 reading in Karen Casey’s classic meditation book Each Day a New Beginning includes this line, “We are offered, moment by moment, opportunities to experience the rapture of life.”

Rapture? Ecstasy? Delight? Joy?

But this rapture does not always equal pleasure. The “rapture of life” promised to us in recovery is the ineffable glory of being alive. The “rapture of life” is the intense experience of living life awake, alert, and head-on.

This has been a difficult couple of weeks. I’ve had some health issues to deal with. My best friend fell, broke her ankle, and had to be pinned-and-plated back together. Another friend has a grandchild who is grievously ill. Another couldn’t find affordable housing locally and has had to move out of town. Oh, and then there’s the state of the world, the state of the nation, and the bewildering climate.

“We are offered, moment by moment, opportunities to experience the rapture of life.”

The promise of sobriety, the promise of living life in the fellowship of AA, using the Twelve Steps as a guide for personal behavior, is the promise of not only enduring the difficult times, but of finding the joy in those times. We are promised the ability to live life moment-by-moment. We are taught how to bring ourselves away from the shame of the past or fear of the future by focusing on right here, right now, this breath, this blink, this chiming of the clock. This is joy. This is rapture: being present for our own lives.

Every moment of our lives is an opportunity to be grateful. That is hard to believe in the midst of pain, loss, fear, and frustration. It can seem callous, numb, and unrealistic to say that. But grace is found in the wee pockets of time, in the fleeting thoughts of  “I need to call my friend” or the silent presence of the mourner with the bereaved. It’s in helping make new pillow shams for the apartment that’s too far away.

Yesterday morning I was taking my Golden Retriever BridgetAdams for a walk. She smiles at every single neighbor and each neighbor smiles back. Some give her pats and belly rubs and some even give her biscuits. She is equally glad to see them all. The shining sun makes her fur glitter and sparkle. I am glad to be alive now, right here, walking the dog.

And then we come to a little field and there is a bluebird, hopping on the ground, grubbing for breakfast. It’s years since I’ve been this close to a bluebird. The little bird looks up at me and then at Bridgie, acknowledges our presence with a little nod, and calmly takes off and flies to a nearby tree. I am grateful to be alive now, right here, nodding back at that beautiful bird.

“The opposite of addiction is not abstinence: the opposite of addiction is community.”

I’m not sure where I first heard that statement, but I believe it’s true. I’m not relying on my own strength alone to endure or enjoy a day. I can reach out. I am sober. I am alert. I can make choices. I can pick up the phone or walk the dog.

These beliefs, this “alone-no-more” and this “moment-by-moment rapture of life” bring with them some obligations. The Fellowship and Program of AA made the principles I had wanted to live by possible for me to live by. Because I was able to admit my own weakness and neediness, I was able to reach out and find the hand of AA there for me. That sure support gave me the courage to let go of the crutch I had been using—alcohol—and stand up. I am able to open my eyes and look around and experience the tiny, beautiful details of the present moment. My strength regained and increased; I can reach out. I can be present with those who are sick and suffering. I can look people in the eye, and I can promise, “You are not alone.”

And I can witness others as they live life one day at a time, one rapturous moment at a time.

-Christine H.

Step 2: Came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. I was never going to take the first step if the second step wasn’t there to give me hope. My life was such a mess and I felt very insane. The promise and hope allowed me to take a chance…

And then there was that third step:Made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the CARE of God as I understood God.

I was stumped—I knew I had some idea of God, but it wasn’t a very good one. I had a secret when I got sober. I worked for the church; I didn’t really have any connection with God by the time I stopped drinking. I hit my bottom after my dearest friend died when she was only 33 years old. Between 12 and 21 years old, 20 relatives died including my father when I was 12. My God was gone from me with all that grief and pain.

My sponsor suggested that I do a sort of 4^th step on my spiritually. My first memory of an insight, or the experience of God, or a higher power, was when my grandfather died. I could see myself sitting on the screen porch tying my shoes. My grandfather had taught me how to tie my shoes just a year before. In those days you had to be able to tie your shoes to show that you were mature enough to go to kindergarten. Everyone was so sad, but I knew he was still with me. Then the gentle sense of a grandfatherly God left me.  I got busy with life and school and drinking and lost any real connection to God. I studied theology in the hopes of finding God again. 

Raised a Roman Catholic, the church either boggled me or I found hypocrisy in every area of the church. As a child I rushed through confession making up sins, didn’t understand the Latin mass, and was freaked out by the corpus on the crucifix. That God was a punishing one—no thanks.

I spent time trying to know God. I walked a lot and I often noticed that the wind was the only thing that I could feel as a power greater than me. I couldn’t turn my will and my life over to the care of the wind! I searched back into my life to see what I could connect with.

I remembered that as a kid we had a babysitter named Miss Connie. She was British and had a big lap and gave big hugs. As I remembered her in early sobriety, I used her as my image of a loving power greater than me. She had looked a lot like Queen Elizabeth II’s mother. I cut out a picture of the woman and had it on my bureau.

My daughter was almost three when I got sober. She loved Mr. Rogers. As I cleaned up the kitchen, I often stopped to watch with her and felt such love and support from Fred Rogers that I thought I’d use him as a higher power. It was a bit odd since he was a living person but what he said and how I felt gave me such peace. I knew a God like Mr. Rogers was a God I could depend on to care for me. I had a picture of him on my bureau as well.

As time and sober years passed, I have found comfort in other images—Mary the mother of Jesus and Quan Yin, the goddess of holding sorrows in the Buddhist tradition. I watched songbirds at my feeder and saw that they soared on the wind and trusted the wind to help them find food and water. Maybe I could do that too. Each image or experience of something greater and deeper than me has helped me find a way to hold that true connection that I am loved, and that I could turn over to the care of God all my life and will. When friends say, “I can take care of that for you” I trust it more and more. I know God will do the same. I don’t second guess the people closest in my life that answer my request for help—so I have learned not to question that God would be there if I asked. The challenge is to ASK and then turn it over to God’s care. God could and would if sought.

“I finally surrendered” but not until the passage of six weeks of the Program...

...when I came to believe, I was living in a dark tunnel, one which never seemed to end. It was sucking me into times of pain, loss of much, and shame. I finally admitted it, on my knees. I admitted it to someone, and I guess I have to say I admitted this to something greater than myself not knowing what or who it was.  I knew this was the only option I had... one night at home, on my knees, silent, begging for help to find light, a way out of this darkness I had fallen into.

As I rose from my knees, I felt something lift me by my shoulders, I sensed a newness, a hope. Sounds too simplistic and superhuman, but don’t tell me this couldn’t have happened to me. It did. Later that day, at my meeting, I relayed what had happened. The reading that night was about Bill W’s encounter with his Higher Power.  People reached for me, smiling, tears in our eyes, others saying, “Just like me.” A brighter path seemed to open for there was more than just those in that room, a power greater than us was there. Believe it!

It was a loving something whose aim seemed only to provide a way to help me. I realized that night that I’d tried all my life to “run the show,” I knew it all, and could manage my life without assistance following what I felt was the right path. That path brought me deep into that tunnel and its pain and harm to others and myself.  I came to believe there had to be a better way. The people with me that evening told me of their experiences finding this greater help, this “Higher Power” they kept calling it. I heard their stories—some stories of their travels were deeper than I had fallen, and I was reminded that that option was available if I went back out. But I heard they had found light, a way to live life without alcohol, lives of happiness, of joy, free of that tunnel.

When I went home that night, I finally realized what was happening for I had to admit to myself that “I gave up. I handed my life over to this Higher Power.” As I did so, I again felt His hand reaching for me, showing me the way.  I knew each person at the meeting that evening was doing the same. It was a way I could walk with help from my higher Power.

Now I am taking steps to strengthen my surrender, building on it, and finding an alcohol-free life based on love, honesty, and reliance on our Higher Power. This takes effort and time.  Yes, I was told that I would find a spiritual life, one which reveals the next right thing when caught in a jam. They told me and I believed them that this was a daily effort, to build on the very things I was learning those first nights. And they told me that I had an obligation to carry the message of these early meetings to those who still suffered.  

This is how the Program came to my rescue at my early AA meetings.

Jim A, St X Noon & Springboro/Franklin, Wednesday Noon

In his review of Kenneth Branagh’s movie  “A Haunting in Venice,” in PARABOLA  Summer 2024 , Jame Tynen writes, “it deserves  more recognition for its powerful picture of what happens when a committed rationalist encounters the supernatural” At the end of the review he writes, “A Haunting in Venice reminds us that to take a step into the supernatural is to risk being swept into powers that can’t be described as facts , clues and deductions. It is a journey into a reality that can’t be measured or rationalized yet nevertheless has the power to change us.

Over the span of my time in the Fellowship I have come across many agnostics, atheists, and rationalists who, like the rest of us, had some problem with the idea of God since we had prayed to God for help, cursed God for not helping, abandoned god.

When I first heard that all I had to do was “Read the Big Book, talk to my sponsor, and go to meetings” I was more than skeptical. I had difficulty in acknowledging that I was powerless. Coming to believe in a Power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity was laughable. I could stop drinking anytime I wanted, I was not insane. My boss sent me for treatment not to a Psych ward.  

“Turned our will and our life over the care of God as we understood Him.” I was a good catholic, of course God was in charge of my life. I had no control over anything, except that I acted like I had control over everything.

“What happens when a committed rationalist encounters the supernatural?” Miracles happen sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly but they will always materialize if we work [look] for them.

“To take a step into the supernatural is to risk being swept into powers that can’t be described as facts, clues, and deductions.” Having read the Big Book, the Twelve and Twelve, The Little Red Book, and the history of A.A., I knew it all except this part that few really discussed—the supernatural, the Spiritual.

The Spiritual cannot be discussed in terms of facts, clues, and deductions. It is to be experienced and once experienced it leaves us speechless. As Bill reported, “Suddenly the room lit up with a great white light. It seemed to me, in the mind’s eye, that I was on a mountain and that a wind not of air but of spirit was blowing. And then it burst upon me that I was a freeman. Slowly the ecstasy subsided. I lay on the bed, but now for a time I was in another world, a new world of consciousness. All about me and through me there was a wonderful feeling of Presence, and I thought to myself, “So this is the god of the preachers!””

Bill had experienced a “presence,” a “wind,” saw himself on a mountain. But there are those for whom this may be the result of medication, medication withdrawn. And yet, for Bill, it was an experience , a spiritual awakening, that changed his life and the lives of millions of others over the years.

“It is a journey into a reality that can’t be measured or rationalized yet nevertheless has the power to change us.” I never expected the changes that I have experienced since I finally acknowledged I am powerless over alcohol and other drugs, that my life had become unmanageable. In the process of making Amends, I learned just how unmanageable my life had been. I thought I knew about God—so much for a degree in theology (attained under the influence of spirits). I had to come to grips that I had to relearn all I thought I knew and see it in a totally different light. It wasn’t about positions to be taken; it was about being open to the Spirit as I came to understand god. The journey was from the head to the heart, from rigidity in thinking and expectations to finding fluidity in life; it was a journey from arrogance to kneeling in respect with humility; a journey from being under the influence of spirits to being led by the Spirit, a power greater than me, that restored me to sanity.

This was a new reality that could not “be measured or rationalized.”  Somewhere in reading the Big Book, talking to sponsors and members of the fellowship, listening and sharing at meetings, a Spirit, a Power greater than myself, crept into my heart and mind and changed me. Recovery is not “to risk being swept into powers that cannot be described” but rather experienced as life giving.

• Alcoholics Anonymous p 100

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

...that new person, or is it the old timer? Make no mistake about it. Everyone in that AA Room is important!  Each is present at an AA meeting to reap the harvest of the teachings of Alcoholics Anonymous. But the new person? He or she may be plain scared, maybe angry, but not likely to be glad to be there. His attendance may be “court or spousal-directed.” Deep inside herself, she recognizes she may be embarking on making serious changes in her life. Ask yourself how you felt at your first AA meeting? Remember, Step 12 calls us to reach out to these new folks, to carry the message to them.

What’d’ I see that first day: A “lead meeting,” at East One, basement of a branch bank, Tuesday night at 8, smoking and coffee encouraged.  Walking in I saw only strangers. I of course sat in back. People were laughing, welcoming each other. A guy leaned across chairs, asked my name, shook hands, said “I’m George, welcome.” Others followed, I guess it was apparent I was there for the first time, ...strange, no one had a last name. I met Art, Sally, and others before the meeting started. Did I feel “important?” No way. That was the last thing I wanted. Just let me sit in this corner!

We started. Seemed strange. They read some sentences from a book and Art handed me what I later learned was the Twelve Steps and some other stuff and asked me to read a paragraph.  People read from what I came to know as “the Big Book” and it was indeed “big”. A basket was passed, announcements, then the Chair said, “Anyone here for the first time, just tell us your name so we can greet you”. I froze. A guy stood up (must have been sixty or so) and said, “Charlie, I’m an alcoholic”. A couple others followed. People sorta looked at me, so I stood, “Jim,” and sat down.  No way I was going to tell them I was an alcoholic. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, and I wasn’t going to admit it to a group of people I’d never seen before. What if I ran into them at Kroger’s and a guy said, “Hi, good to see you at the AA meeting Tuesday, next week I’m givin’ the lead.”

Then the evening’s speaker, Bill, gave the lead I’ll never forget, ever. For 45 minutes he told his story. I was torn. Much of what he said was the same path I’d traveled… razz-ma-tazz at college and into my 20s, early 30s, but bumps started appearing, difficulties at home, and more, lots of laughter from others, nodding of heads of agreement, “Yeah, I did that!” We clapped for the speaker and with a prayer, and (imagine) holding hands, said something about, “...it works if you work it”, and off I went to ponder all I’d heard and seen.

To be Continued on May 8^. At Red Door.

Jim A, St X Noon & Franklin/Springboro, Wednesday Noon

I have spent the past week wading through my first case of Covid. In the space between naps, I found myself making some new connections.

When I first came into the rooms of recovery, I remember hearing people tell me, correctly, that this is a spiritual, not a religious program. For some of those folks, it also meant that any “religious” language was suspect. I was warned that if I told stories that sounded “religious” I didn’t understand spirituality, and I was unlikely to get the program. Other folks told me how lucky I was that, as an ordained person, I had already nailed the third step…as if. The truth, I suspected, lay somewhere in the middle.

In the early years of sobriety, I listened to countless stories of “God moments” from people who told me such moments were only to be found in the out-of-doors, or in downstairs church – but never, ever, in upstairs church. As a result, I spent a lot of energy avoiding religious language.

Gradually, though, I realized that this wasn’t true for me. One of my close friends occasionally reminds me that I am an “Old-School High Church Anglican cleric.” Besides “recovering addict,” this might be one of the most accurate labels for me. It didn’t make me special, or better-than. It simply made me…me.

Imagine what a blessing it was for me to discover RMEC and this blog. Finally, a place where I could express myself with images that didn’t quite fit in either upstairs church or downstairs church. Most of the writing I do here looks at scripture stories through the lens of this addict’s recovery.

Today, I want to offer two intensely personal examples of how traditional religious language and ritual have guarded me until I found the grace to surrender and have guided my recovery ever since.

The first is an ear worm. I have strong memories of wandering around Hell’s Kitchen (subtle, right?) in the middle of the night, in search of my next fix and/or companion. There were times I paused and asked myself what the hell I was doing. Given what you’ve read so far, you won’t be surprised that the answer came as a fragment of an Advent hymn: Hark! A thrilling voice is sounding. All those nights, the message from my Higher Power was, cast away the works of darkness, O ye children of the day. Even in the places of deepest despair, even when I knew I wasn’t yet ready to cast away the works of darkness, I was being reminded who I really was…a child of the day. A hymn that I had sung since boyhood kept me company.

The second is a liturgical gesture. Those who celebrate Rite I Eucharists are familiar with the phrase (this is from Prayer II, p. 342 of the BCP), “, whereby we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies.” I was taught, when I got to that phrase, to place my hands, palms up, on the altar – an embodiment of offering.

In the years before recovery, this was always a moment of cognitive dissonance. There I was, with hands upturned, while mentally crossing my fingers. When I was still using, I knew that I wasn’t offering myself, or my soul, or my body…just bits of them. I wanted to. I didn’t know how, yet. But there was that little bit of willingness acknowledged in my crossed fingers.

Today, that moment of oblation is one of joy and gratitude, and my fingers are crossed no more. Perhaps people wonder why the priest is smiling. Because God has restored me to sanity.

Does anyone else experience these kinds of God Moments, couched as they are in traditional religious language and ritual? I couldn’t possibly say. It’s clear that not everyone does. But I wonder if some of you who read these blog posts do. Maybe you, too, have been told not to talk churchy. That if you do so, you don’t really get the program. So, you keep many of your stories to yourself. Stories that could help others who find themselves in the same place.

If that sounds like you, we would all love to hear those stories. My experience is that the more stories you tell, the more you will see … in your life and in the world around you. By sharing them, you learn that you don’t have to cross your fingers again either.

Happy Easter,

Paul J. in Muncie

In my sober adult life, I have lived in 5 homes. I moved to my ‘retirement’ home just this past October. Each time I moved I found that the last owners had left lots of stuff in the garage—old paint, gardening sprays, oil, and other toxic stuff. I generally left it there and added to it and then left it for the next owners. When I added to the toxic stuff each time and told myself that the new owners might use the stuff even when I could see that some cans were corroded and were many, many years old.  I didn’t throw any of it out because I knew it wasn’t good for the environment.  But I didn’t do anything about finding a place to dispose of them properly.

When I sold my home last summer, I decided to have a garage sale to rid myself of unwanted stuff and baggage. I set out all the toxic stuff (including mine) and put a free sign on them. A few things went but I was left with a lot of unsafe and dangerous stuff. I decided I didn’t want to leave this stuff for the next family. I would leave the current paint cans that held the colors that were in my place but not the ones from many years ago along with a dozen other toxic stuff.

I looked up Hazardous Waste places and found that the city I was in had one close by. I packed it all up in boxes and off I went. What a relief! The folks there were friendly and helpful. They did not criticize or judge me for the icky stuff I had.  With each thing I gave them I felt lighter and happy to know that my bad stuff would be delt with properly and I would not contribute to harming the environment.

Then I moved and bought another home. On the day I moved I looked in the outdoor storage closet (no garage this time) only to find that the previous owners had left hazardous stuff!  I choose to believe that they thought I might want to use it but there was nothing I wanted.

This time would be different!  I packed up the stuff and put it my car to take to the hazardous waste place. I would take care of the icky stuff now! I would not leave it for the next family. And then it sat in my car.  For months. I even had to take it out to put other things in my car and then put it back in.

I was busy! I had to settle in, get to know the neighbors, find great new AA meetings, get to know the town. So, I drove around with this toxic stuff in my car for months!

Finally, this last week I dealt with it all. Where I live now meant I had to drive 25 miles to the hazardous waste place. I had to use navigation because I didn’t know how to get there on my own. I thought I might have to pay to get rid of the stuff since I live outside the city limits. But I was going to do it!

When I arrived, the person at the gate told me I didn’t have to pay and directed me to the area where I could give up the stuff. Friendly men, just like before, took each thing and then THANKED me for bringing it! I felt so light and happy as I left that I had physically let go of things that were not good for me or anyone else.  Used in the correct way they helped but later their use became toxic and had to be disposed of it with help.

It's now the 4^th month of the year so I find myself thinking about the 4^th step. “Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” and then the 5^th step- “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” And the 6^th- “Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.” And the 7^th- “Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.”

My experience with the hazardous waste took me through 4,5,6, and 7! It was a very visceral experience of inventory, admitting the toxicity of the stuff even stuff I inherited, I got ready to remove it, and finally I got the help to do so.

The stuff that others left became my defects because I didn’t deal with them. I let them become part of my mess. Driving around with all that stuff in my car reminded me of holding on to my defects and letting them bother me because I knew I wasn’t dealing with them. Getting help to find a place to take the stuff AND the help I got there to unload it freed me from it.