“Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path”….
I have broken down my life into two distinct eras: BR and AR (Before Recovery & After recovery).
Up until the time I made it into AA, I utterly lacked direction, like a rudderless ship.
Rather than committing myself and following through. I was more about seeing what I could get away with.
Like a good alcoholic, I’d spent most of my time burning bridges and embarrassing myself.
What I didn’t realize, was up to that time, my whole life was actually spent moving towards Alcoholics Anonymous.
When I first showed up,I was working in a liquor store (a poor career path for a newcomer in recovery), and the only thing I knew enough to do was to keep coming back.
There’s a great Woody Allen quote: “80% of success is showing up.”
We are given so many tools for staying sober:
The steps;
traditions;
slogans;
promises;
24 hour living…
However, our greatest asset is each other.
Everyone has a message, and everyone has value.
Especially when you’re not feeling all that great about yourself, and you find yourself questioning the relevance of your recovery, never lose sight of the fact that you are a worthwhile human being.
If you are still alive and you made it here, God chose you for something.
Some of the most notable and influential people I’ve known over the years haven’t done AA perfectly.
They showed up, reached out, and did the best they could.
None of these guys was by any means flawless, but they all left an indelible mark in their own way.
Rather than strive to master everything the program has to offer, they just focused on one thing. It didn’t mean their program was weak, it meant they were consistent.
Stick around and pay attention, and I GUARANTEE you’ll meet some interesting and illuminating people.
It was those folks who lit the path and showed me the way.
Tradition five’s central theme: It’s better do one thing supremely well than many badly.
Roger focused on , and his pigeons. Today, they are deemed the more politically correct term: ‘sponsee’
(I always thought ‘pigeon’ was more apropos, since they shit on you and fly away).
Walter was skinny as a rail, old as Methuselah, and preached the the importance of the steps. He was the step guru. I knew a few guys who went through the steps with him.
Looking back, I’m sorry I never went through the steps with Walt. It just wasn’t meant to be, because at that juncture in my life, I wasn’t ready to commit to do them…that would come later, with other people.
And then there was Jimmy G.
Jimmy was a grizzled old soaker with a zinc-lined stomach, and hobnailed liver that had long since ceased trying to fight back.
He had a shock of gray hair and a big, gray beard.
Jimmy was about one thing and one thing only: ‘The first drink’.
He was all about physical sobriety and not picking up that first drink,
“One is too many, and a thousand’s not enough.”
It didn’t matter what the meeting’s topic was, he always brought it around to that first drink. He’d hold up his hand with an inch between his forefinger and thumb, and proclaim to the room, “My problem is this big” (I’d always assumed he was talking about a shot glass).
Jimmy’s central message: No matter what happens, you don’t have to drink.
He continually talked about his sponsor, Charlie, who he held in the highest esteem.
That was pretty much how he broke it down.
The meeting was at 7:30 AM. He’d look at his watch and announce that if he didn’t drink for the next 16-and-a-half hours, he’d have another day of sobriety under his belt, and he’d be okay.
Jimmy’s was the first 40 year medallion I’d ever seen, and it made a big impression.
He could 12-step people like no one else I’d ever seen.
It didn’t matter if it was a brand-new puzzled & frightened kid, or some poor, tormented soul returning from a slip – he’d throw a net over them, and reel them in.
He always sat at the back of the room, surrounded by his disciples: a cadre of serious, like-minded guys with a take-no-prisoners attitude.
I knew each one these guys, and I enjoyed their company, and respected their resolve. They each went out and preached the gospel of Jimmy G.
I didn’t necessarily agree with his brand of recovery, but I had to respect it: you can’t argue with success.
Like just about any outspoken and opinionated alcoholic, he pissed a lot of people off. But he also did a lot of good, and saved a lot of lives.
He always related a story about an unfortunate slip he had when he was new in sobriety.
…I’d heard this story a thousand times…
He’d spent the majority of the previous evening drinking heavily, and it was now the morning after. He was physically sick and emotionally shattered.
Charlie picked him up, looked him over and said, “How you doing, kid…you need a drink?”
Suddenly, Jimmy knew he wasn’t alone, that someone knew exactly how he felt.
That kind of empathy left a permanent impression and turned him into the crusader we all knew.
Anyway,
back in the early 1990’s I worked at an car dealership in Hyannis, MA.
There was this one salesman named Pete. There’s no polite way to put it: Pete was a sot. A rummy.
He always looked like an unmade bed, and was usually drunk. Management tolerated him because he consistently wrote business. Peter was what you would deem a ‘functional drunk.’
I genuinely liked Pete. He was smart, funny, charismatic, and generous to a fault…even if he was kind of a pain in the ass.
It was well known on the lot that I attended Alcoholics Anonymous (I was one of ‘those’), and it wasn’t long before Pete asked if he could tag along. I was pleased to have his company.
It was always the same: After the meeting, Pete would proclaim that he was through drinking. He had seen the error of his ways, and this time it was the ‘real thing’.
Then, sure as ever, Pete would show up drunk the next morning. He just couldn’t help himself, and was like a whipped dog
It was disappointing, discouraging and sad. I was convinced he would turn up dead some day.
Although it was exasperating, I totally understood it. I didn’t cosign it, but I understood the whole pathology of it. Pete was an alcoholic.
Eventually, that job ended. I moved on the greener pastures and lost touch with Pete.
People tend to move in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant.
Fast forward to about 15 years later, and I am now living in Florida.
As usual, us kids converged on my Mother’s house on Cape Cod for the Holidays.
One morning, for old time’s sake, I decided to check out my old home group, the ‘Hour of Power’ in Centerville.
There’s an incredible rate of attrition in AA (which is probably why newcomers are so treasured).
An AA group is a living, breathing entity, and the geography of groups change with the people that inhabit it.
You can belong to a home group for years, be totally entrenched, an have bonded with most everyone there. Move away and return a couple years later, and it’s a different group. The majority of the people are new. Only a few of your old friends remain…It’s an interesting phenomenon.
I was waiting for the meeting to start, just sitting there, sipping my coffee and enjoying the vibe.
Some guy I didn’t know walks over to me with a big smile and an outstretched hand.
I looked closer and did a double take: it was Pete.
His eyes were clear, his clothes were clean and pressed, and he was clean shaven.
This was a completely different human being.
He had fallen in with Jimmy G. and his band of Merry Men.
It was the right message, at the right time – and a light went off.
He had now been sober for three years, and was very active in the group.
You never know.
To tell you the truth, I felt kind of ambivalent. On one hand I was delighted, but on the other hand, I was a bit chagrined I couldn’t have been a part of it. Evidently, my mission was to plant the seed and get out of the way.
Everything else was above my pay grade.
HERE’S THE TAKEAWAY:
I belong in Alcoholics Anonymous, and it doesn’t matter where I live, what I do, or how much I earn.
The meetings are there and it’s up to me to go out and find them.
Meeting new people is an adventure: To find out who they are, what they bring to the table, and to learn from them.
Sure, you can miss your old friends, but you’ll always have many new friends waiting to be met.