Awakening
“This sense of clean and beautiful newness within and without is one of the commonest entries in conversion records…And that such a glorious transformation as this ought of necessity to be preceded by despair …”
-William James in The Varieties of Religious Experience
Without ghost lines of turned-down pages,
I pulled the unread book from its wedged perch,
opened to a tale written by a drunk sage.
Without ghost lines, no turned-down pages,
I unlocked the door of my cage —
from weathered story sprung the answer to my search.
Without ghost lines of turned-down pages,
I awakened in this printed church.
Although told in a deliberately obscure way, this poem, midway through my poetry collection, Firefly, marks a turning point in the story of my recovery from alcoholism and addiction. Within the lines of this poem, I sketch the spiritual experience that changed me.
Alcoholics and addicts do not often experience a sudden upheaval in our way of thinking — most seem to have a gradual reordering based on learning how to live sober. I feel fortunate to have experienced a dramatic, unexplainable moment that filled me with light. I don’t see this as a mark of me being “special,” but rather as the universe gifting me with the only thing that could break through my intractable desperation.
This poem went through several iterations of form until I settled on an old form, the French Triolet. The Triolet, which means “clover leaf” in Middle French, is a medieval verse from the thirteenth century. Enlish poets began using this form in the eighteenth century. The age of this poetic form, with its repeating lines and tight rhyme scheme, felt like an echo of all the people who came before me who had also received this spiritual gift.
My awakening came at a moment when I was certain to lose my family, my husband and young son, if I drank again. Earlier that day, I carted all of the booze at home over to my in-laws’, but I was in the house, alone. It occurred to me that I could easily drive to the store and buy more alcohol. I knew I could lose everything if I did this, but I felt certain that I would drink. I shook with both fear and desire. Not knowing what else to do, I called a sober friend, a woman who had become my mentor. She asked if she could return my call in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! That was so long. How could I stop this overwhelming urge to drink?
I paced in my bedroom, looking at the clock; its digital numbers seemed frozen in place. The fear that I would drink consumed me. My twisted brain whispered, only a drink will relieve this fear — this fear that I would drink! (only an addict understands this logic). Finally, desperate to forestall my impulse, I picked a book about recovery, one I owned but had never read, off the bookshelf. I opened to a story written by a drunk. Within these pages, something changed inside my brain. It was more than merely recognizing myself in someone else’s story: the knowledge that I suffered from a spiritual disease became clear to me. Alcohol and drugs were substances I used to fill the void in my soul. That was what was wrong with me! I had a soul-sickness and it could be treated. This man had gotten better and so could I.
By the time Sharon called me back, minutes later, I was utterly changed. Breathless and giddy, I asked her: Have you ever read this story? Do you know about what happened to this man?
Well-acquainted with this famous story, Sharon merely laughed.
And so, my journey towards recovery began.
