People in recovery are among the very best people I know. They have been to hell and back, and they know how precious this life is — this sober life.
They teach me about tolerance, which I have learned to define as the ability to accept imperfections in others and, most importantly, in yourself.
They practice on a daily basis the art of forgiveness. Forgiving others. Forgiving themselves.
Even, sometimes, forgiving God or whatever Fate or Force seems, at time, to conspire against them . . . and then, mysteriously enough, returns to support and sustain them.
People in recovery understand how critically important honesty is, especially honesty with one’s own self.
They admit their flaws and failings willingly and openly, knowing that serenity and peace of mind can only be discovered in humility and the humble prayer, “Help me.”
And they know about gratitude — the kind of gratitude that goes beyond a superficial “thank you” for possessions earned or bestowed, to an acknowledgment of the daily blessings of compassion, community, and life itself.
Recovering people are, for the most part, silent and unseen. We don’t often read about their challenges and triumphs in the newspaper. We don’t see their pictures in the supermarket tabloids or read about their quiet, sober lives in teen or movie magazines.
But they are here among us—more than 23 million of them—mowing their lawns next door, driving their children to school, teaching our children in kindergarten and college classrooms, reading the newspaper while sipping coffee at local coffee shops, lifting weights at the gym.
Of course we wouldn’t know from looking at them. From the outside we wouldn’t be able to tell how much pain they suffered in the past or how much shame and guilt they often deal with every day, day after day, for the suffering they once caused others.
We don’t know about the meetings they attend once a week or once a day. We don’t hear about the visits they make to friends and strangers who are hurting and in despair.
But they are all around us, walking the walk, taking daily leaps of faith, stumbling and picking themselves back up again.
One of my recovering friends recently, shyly, offered me something she had written in response to a question from her Narcotics Anonymous sponsor. If you could choose the perfect life, her sponsor asked her, what would it be?
“I think I have the perfect life today. The fact that I am alive and able to have the chance at any kind of life is so amazing. I have ups and downs, but that is life. And there is a lot of work at life, things that I will learn along the way. It is just a gift that I am here and able to live it, that I am here when others come around seeking a better way to live . . . that I am able to share, with those who want it, my experience, strength, and hope.”
I like the straight talk of normal, everyday people in recovery. They zero in on what really matters. No excuses. No fancy words. Just putting it out there, saying it like it is. Exposing their hearts, searching their souls, refusing to lie to anyone, anytime, anywhere.
In The New York Times bestseller “The Courage to Change: Personal Conversations About Alcoholism” (Warner Books, 1984), recovering alcoholic Dennis Wholey interviewed famous people in recovery — actor Jason Robards, writer Elmore Leonard, rock star Glace Slick, politician Wilbur Mills, lawyer Gerry Spence.
These famous folks talk straight, too, but my favorite words of all are at the very end of the book in a section titled “12 Members of Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Here’s what “Ed” had to say about recovery:
“I went to meetings. I talked. I cried. I was hugged. I was afraid. I was trusted. They believed me because they said they knew, and slowly a healing took place. No magic. No cure. But a very slow healing occurred around tables, among people who had experienced great pain, great sickness, much emptiness. Collectively, we were being healed.
“It was the same and different for each of us . . .
“They touched my soul when it was time. I knew I would keep going to the tables to try and describe the touch of a soul, the feel of it, the freedom of it, the adventure of it. If that meant I could not drink today, then today I would not drink. If that meant I had to go to a meeting, then I would go. It was all I ever wanted — to touch the soul of another.
“Again and again and again.”
In the end, I wonder if that is what we all want as human beings. To touch the soul of another.
In that sense, perhaps we are all in recovery.
