past that brought you to a moment of justice. It’s the joy of being a young man in a young world. It’s awareness—or is it realization of one’s capabilities and limitations? It’s concentration—or is it an easy sensing of the universe? It’s seeing a mystical power for good in each and every human being. It’s patience in the face of stupidity. It’s feeling that you want to knock somebody’s head off—and walking away instead. It’s when you’re down past your last dime, and you know you still have something that money can’t buy. It’s wearing dungarees that feel like a tuxedo. It’s wanting to go home, yet being there. It’s a rocket ride that goes far beyond the world your eye can see. It’s looking at something that superficially is ugly, but radiates beauty. It’s a majestic skyline or a western desert. It’s a young child. It’s seeing a caterpillar turn into a butterfly. It’s the awareness that survival is a savage fight between you and yourself. It’s a magnetic pull toward those who are down and out. It’s knowing that even the bad times are good.
Don’t look back—you haven’t seen anything yet.
When people look at you and wonder what’s with you, the look in your eyes will answer them: “Because I can cut it!”
The singular thing that is spirituality cannot be given to a fellow- man by word of mouth. If every man is to have it, then every man must earn it, in his own way, by his own hand, stamped by the seal of himself, in his own individual right
New York, New York
THE OTHER SIDE
During a meeting one day, I remarked that I was just tickled to death with this A.A. program—all but the spiritual side of it.
After the meeting, another member came up to me and said, “I liked that remark you made—about how you like the program—all but the spiritual part of it. We’ve got a little time. Why don’t we talk about the other side of it?”
That ended the conversation.
Modesto, California
| SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES | 2 |
| It is certain that all recipients of spiritual experiences declare for their reality. The best evidence of that reality is in the subsequent fruits. Those who receive these gifts of grace are very much changed people, almost invariably for the better. | |
| Bill W. | |
| Talk, 1960 | |
HE HAD BEEN LISTENING
In my early youth, I was confronted with a choice: what seemed to be a dull, moral life or what appeared to be an exciting, adventurous life—after a few drinks of alcohol. I had been brought up in the tradition of a stern and vengeful God, who was watching every move I made. I could not work up too much love for that type of deity, and I felt guilty about it. But after a drink or two, I would forget my guilt. This, I decided, was the life for me!
It started off pleasantly enough, promoting dreams of glittering fame and fortune. But this life gradually regressed to a constant nightmare of fear and remorse over my condition and resentment and anger at a normal way of life which went on all around me, but which apparently I could not enter. The truth was that I drank myself out of society, coming by degrees to live in a mental state that sealed off any social or moral contact with anybody. But at that time I could not see my excessive drinking as the cause. I had become convinced that God and society had frozen me out, denying me the breaks in life. I could see no sense in living. I lacked the courage to kill myself, but I believe that desperation would have broken this barrier of cowardice had it not been for an experience that changed my mental outlook entirely.
This experience came about through the death of my father in Scotland. He had lived a good life in his community and was honored in his passing by all who had known him. I had received newspapers giving accounts of his funeral. That evening, I was seated at a small table in a crowded tavern, drunk and brooding over what I had read. I felt no sorrow at my father’s passing. Hate and envy saturated my mind, and I was muttering to myself, “Why should he and other people get all the breaks in life, while good men like me don’t get a chance? What a rotten deal I’m getting! People would love and honor me, too, if I had the chances in life he had.”
In the tavern, the noise of conversation was deafening. But suddenly I heard a voice in my mind ring out loud and clear: “What accounting are you going to give to God of your life?” I looked around, astounded, for it was my grandmother’s voice. She had passed from this life and out of my thoughts over twenty years earlier. This was her favorite quotation. I had heard her say it often in my youth, and now I heard it again in the tavern.
As soon as I heard this voice, my mind cleared up, and I knew beyond all doubt that no other person nor any situation was responsible for my state. I alone was responsible.
The effect was shattering. First, I had heard that voice, and then my whole excuse for my failure in life—that I had never got any breaks—was wiped out of my mind forever. The thought hit me that if I killed myself, as I wanted to, there was a chance that I might meet up with God, and have to give Him an account of the life I lived, with no one else to blame for it. I wanted no part of that, and the idea of killing myself was dropped then and there. But the thought that I might die at any time remained to haunt me.
All this was crazy, I thought. But, no matter how much I argued with myself that I was having a hallucination, I could not dismiss the implication of the experience. I could visualize myself being brought before a stern-looking deity, who would coldly look down His nose at me with utter contempt and say grimly, “Speak up!” That was as far as my imagination would carry me, and from then on I would get blind drunk trying to blot out the whole experience. But when I came to in the morning, the experience would still be with me, strong as ever.
I thought I had better quit drinking for a while and start to reshape my life. This resolution led to a terrible shock. Up to this time, I had never tied in my troubles with alcohol. I knew that I drank too much, but I had always felt that I had good reason to drink. Now I found, to my amazement and horror, that I could not quit. Drinking had become such a part of my life that I could not function without it.
I did not know where to turn for help. Believing that people thought about me the way I thought about them, I was sure I could not turn to them. This left only God, and if He felt about me as I felt about Him, this was a slim hope indeed. In this manner, I passed through the three blackest months of my life. During that time, it seemed, I drank more than I ever had before, and I prayed to “nothing” for help to get away from alcohol.
One morning, I came to on the floor in my room, horribly sick, convinced that God was not going to listen to me. More on reflex than anything else, I got to work that morning and attempted to make up a payroll, though it was hard to hold my shaking hands still enough to put the figures in the right place. After a great deal of trouble, I finally completed the job. With a sigh of relief, I looked out the window and noticed a man approaching the hut I was working in. As I recognized him, hate surged into my mind. Seven months before, he had had the temerity to ask me in front of other men if I was having trouble with my drinking, and I had been deeply insulted by his question. I had not seen him for months, but my hatred of him was alive and vital as he passed by the hut.
Then something happened that has never ceased to amaze me. As he moved out of sight, everything went blank. The next thing
