One Blog at a Time: Powerless

Step One: Powerless
“We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [drugs, food, sex, etc], that our lives had become unmanageable.”

People often tell me that they have trouble with the word “powerless” in the first of the 12 Steps. They’ll say “I’m not powerless; there are lots of things I can do. “ They think they’re being told that they are helpless victims of their addiction. Others tell me that they think it makes for a victim mentality that pervades 12 Step programs.
The language of the Steps is often difficult to take in. There is the simple fact that language has changed a great deal since the Steps were written in the 1930s. But I also think that the founders of AA who wrote the 12 Steps were intentionally using somewhat extreme language to get our attention. If they’d said, “We admitted alcohol was a problem for us,” or even “We admitted we couldn’t control our use of alcohol,” it might have been more accurate, but it wouldn’t have had the same impact as saying “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol.” Questions of style aside, though, what these early members of AA found was that the best time to approach someone about their drinking problem was when they were at their lowest—hungover or at the end of a bender. Whether they were literally powerless or not wasn’t the point. That’s how it felt. And the admission of powerlessness leads to the response that the program is trying to evoke: surrender.
This struggle with the word powerless is often just the first of many complaints about the language of the Steps. And underneath the complaints is often just a desire to avoid the real issue: your problem with alcohol, drugs, food, sex, or some other addiction. Focusing on the minutiae of the 12 Step language lets you sidestep the larger issue. This is why, ultimately, I’m not that interested in debating the language of the Steps. What I want to get at is the process that the Steps are pointing to.
Obviously the Steps were designed to help people stop their addiction and stay stopped. But I think that their underlying structure is based on a broader template for spiritual transformation. The function of the first Step then is more than just telling us we have a problem with addiction. It is the realization that the whole premise of our pleasure-seeking lives is flawed. Another classic template for spiritual transformation makes this same statement: the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths.
The Buddha starts his teaching with the recognition of all the ways that life is challenging, physically and mentally—that we’re often stuck with what we don’t want or wishing we had something else; that we inevitably get old and sick and die. Just like Step One, he’s trying to get us to see past the surface to what’s really going on. The starting point of both paths, then is to see the truth: in 12 Step terms, to come out of denial; in Buddhist terms, to shed delusion. To begin on any spiritual path, and to deal with the destructive power of addiction, we have to be honest with ourselves.
For the addict or alcoholic this honesty is about admitting, as the Step says, that we have a problem, that our life isn’t working. For the Buddhist, this honesty is about recognizing that the way we have been approaching life is unrealistic. Until we come to this point, called “Right View” in Buddhism and “a moment of clarity” in AA, there’s no chance that we will change. As long as we believe that pleasure-seeking and acquisition are the way to happiness, and that all we have to do is get better at acquiring and holding on to things, we will never resolve the real problem. That’s because, as the Buddha tells us, what’s actually causing suffering is the very attempts to control and acquire, our craving and clinging. He points out that, since everything is constantly changing, there’s nothing that we can actually control or hold on to. His strategy, then, is to let go, to surrender—exactly the solution offered by the 12 Steps.
And this all starts with the honest recognition of how things work. When Step One says we are powerless, this is the idea that’s we’re being encouraged to see, that our attempt to create a perfect world out of imperfect parts is doomed to fail. We have to see what is happening, that drinking and using by their very nature cannot bring happiness, that pursuing pleasure is not a life strategy, and that surrendering to the truth and abandoning our addiction, though painful at first, is actually the beginning of the path to recovery, happiness, and spiritual transformation.

Exercise: The Cause of Suffering
Begin by sitting quietly for a few minutes. Try to consciously relax the body, and just be aware of your breathing. Once you’ve settled a bit, ask yourself “What am I holding on to that is causing me suffering?” This might be anything from an object, to a behavior, to a relationship. It might involve substances like drugs or food; it might involve a viewpoint or opinion that causes you problems at work or at home; it might be about some loss you’ve suffered. There may be multiple things you are holding on to. Once you have a sense of what these things are, ask yourself, “What would happen if I simply let go?” "What if I let go of the behavior or the opinion or the grief?"
Sometimes simply seeing the problem is enough to inspire us to let go. For many things, though, it’s a process, and that’s what the rest of the 12 Steps are meant to help us with.

Counselors in Prison

A few months ago I was asked to lead a Buddhism/12 Step workshop in Solano State Prison, in Vacaville, California. I was invited by Tom Gorham the clinical director of Options Recovery Services (www.optionsrecovery.org)in Berkeley, a street-level non-profit, where I first taught meditation to addicts almost ten years ago. Tom is helping run a program to train clean and sober inmates to mentor and counsel other addicts inside, and potentially outside. The ultimate goal is for them to become certified counselors by the California Association of Alcoholism and Drug Abuse Counselors (CAADAC). I was intrigued by the opportunity, and drove an hour north to the prison on a sunny day in late March.
As I drove the freeway, I thought about the prisoners. Just the simple act of driving was something they couldn’t do. I was once in jail overnight and it was the most frightening event of my life. The horror of loss of freedom came home to me that night. Like our health, our physical freedom is something we tend to take for granted, but when it’s threatened, we realize how wonderful it is.
Besides contemplating their existence in prison, I felt some trepidation about meeting these prisoners. Who were these men? What would they think about a Buddhist? How would they respond to meditation?
Tom met me at the entrance to the prison, got me signed in and led me to the building where I was going to be teaching. We walked past hundred of prisoners hanging out in the yard, and everything seemed calm and peaceful. But I couldn’t help noticing the guards in the towers watching our every move—and, of course, that of the prisoners. I tried to walk with mindfulness, to observe the whole scene and to feel my reaction to it all and to the situation itself. I wasn’t terribly relaxed.
We had to go through another gate to get to our building. The prisoners I’d be dealing with were privileged. They had passed through various hoops to get here, and almost all of them were active members of 12 Step programs, sobriety being a pre-requisite for the program. As we got to the building, more blue-jean-suited prisoners milled around, but here there was a definite change, a marked friendliness, people greeting me with nods and smiles. I began to relax.
Inside everyone gathered in a typical institutional setting, folding chairs, fluorescent lights, and grey linoleum floors. Tom introduced me, and I looked around at this group of men, ranging from their early twenties to well into their sixties. Tom had told me that some of them were lifers, while others hoped to get out and be drug and alcohol counselors some day. The majority were black; several were Hispanic; a couple were White or Asian.
Looking at their open, eager faces I felt a huge rush of respect: these guys were living in the most oppressive conditions you can live in in our country, but instead of rebelling, complaining, blaming, or giving up, they were trying to do something positive with their lives.
“You guys are a huge inspiration to me,” I said. “You exemplify the Twelfth Step: ‘Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to help other alcoholics. . . ‘ You get it. You’ve realized that happiness doesn’t come by satisfying your own personal desires, but by helping others.” It was awe-inspiring to think of the transformation some of these guys had made.
As I spoke the heads nodded, the smiles broke out. I began to talk about my own experience with drugs and alcohol. Then I told them about mindfulness and we began to meditate. Again, I felt some trepidation. Were they going to get it? Were they going to think I was just some flaky white-guy trying to spread some exotic Eastern religion? As soon as the meditation finished and they started asking questions, my fears lifted. They had the same questions that any group of beginners has; they were excited and engaged and just wanted to know more. In fact, there was a graciousness and politeness that surpassed my typical crowd. And their gratitude was palpable.
Quickly I was reminded of other teaching encounters, with the homeless at the Berkeley Ecumenical Chaplaincy; with people in treatment in Harlem; and with the addicts I worked with at Options. Each time I went in with pre-conceptions about who these people were, that somehow they were different from me, a different color, a different class, different educational background, and each time I learned that they were just like me. The men at Solano State Prison were smart, engaged, aware. Many of them were well-read and spiritually sophisticated. They were hungry for my teachings, and I felt honored and grateful to be able to give something to them. I also knew that what separated us was not any personal qualities, but rather the privilege I’d been raised in and the lack of privilege most of them had experienced. I committed many of the same crimes as them, I imagine. And the one time I was caught, my skin-color and my family kept me from bearing any serious consequences.
Today I received an invitation to the “Offender Mentor Certification Program Graduation.” I’m told that more than three-quarters of them passed their exams. I’m proud to have been a small part of their education. I feel lucky. Very lucky.

Wands

Wands

I’ve been re-reading the sixth Harry Potter book in preparation for the new movie. I’m not much of a fantasy-fiction reader, but I had read most of the books aloud to my daughter and fell in love with them (talk about addictive!). Reading The Half-Blood Prince I had an experience I recall from reading the books before: at some point I would start to long for a wand. It’s just such an appealing concept, being able to point at something and make it do things. In fact, when I get completely absorbed in the books, I’ll have moments of feeling as if I do have a wand.

Of course, this is what drugs and alcohol—and all our addictions—are, wands that magically make us feel the way we want to feel. It’s so simple, just pour a drink or light a joint, snort a line or drop a pill, and poof, everything changes. Most of us start acting out or developing our addiction as teenagers, and this is the time in life when fantasies are so strong—which might be why fantasy fiction, like Harry Potter is directed at and so popular with teens. In that awkward time between the magic of childhood and the reality of adulthood, a time when we think that adults are wet blankets, always trying to quell our dreams, getting high is the perfect wand. Our childish joys no longer inspire us, and adult satisfactions, like work and raising a family, seem so tedious and boring. Drugs and alcohol are the perfect answer—adult in their power, but magical in their effects. There’s no effort involved, other than acquiring them, and they’re exciting, illicit, and reliable.

Of course, the problem is the ultimate, unforeseen effects. I was telling my eleven-year-old daughter about booze and pot the other day, why it is that people take them. “They feel really good,” I told her. “They can make you feel wild and free and happy.” Then I told her that, unfortunately, those short-term effects don’t last, and that the longer term effects can be crippling. This is why they aren’t magic. The high is an illusion. You have to pay a price for it. Short-term pleasure, when pursued on an ongoing basis, leads to addiction and a life centered on getting the next high and avoiding anything that will interfere with your high or cause any discomfort.

One of the biggest challenges for a recovering alcoholic or addict is coming to understand that things take time, that getting anything or accomplishing anything in life is a process that usually takes longer than we want it to. Addicts want magic—we want wands. We want not only the immediate pleasure, but also the thrill of the big breakthrough. In my twenties I had a long-running joke with one of my girlfriends who was a singer: when the phone would ring, I’d say, “It’s the Big Break!” That’s what I wanted and half-expected, to just get a phone call one day offering me a record deal, lots of money, and fame.

Having attained some success in my writing and teaching, I’ve learned that it’s nothing like that. It took me a dozen years of writing to develop the chops to write a book. It took me almost as long to develop the ideas for that book—not to mention all the years of practice and program experience I needed to get those ideas. Then it took me a year to put together the book proposal, find an agent, and get a book deal. When the agent told me she’d sold the book it wasn’t some amazing piece of news. Yes, it was great news, and I celebrated, but it was just part of the process. And that “success” only meant that I now needed to write the whole book. Another year of writing, then six months while the publisher prepared the book for publication. When the book came out, it wasn’t “The Big Break!” It was another day in my life. A good day. And the truth is, even if the book had never gotten sold, just writing it would have been hugely gratifying.

Much of the happiness that adults experience is from work, not from magic or wands. We learn that life’s deepest pleasure come from our efforts to help others, to improve ourselves, to learn to be more loving and wise. The Buddha talked about progressive levels of pleasure: the lowest pleasure is sensual; then meditative; and finally, the pleasure of insight. Each of these is also progressively more subtle and more difficult to attain. But it is that effort that makes them worthwhile. If there really were wands, I think that a lot of the meaning would go out of life.

Buddhist politician

When I looked at Arlen Specter on the front page of the NYT this morning, I thought, this is a Buddhist moment. For decades he's been a Republican. Everyone knew he was a Republican. There was the "R" beside his name. He voted with Republicans, caucused with them, agreed with them. But yesterday he woke up and said, "I'm no longer a Republican." His identity, which seemed so fixed, so solid, was revealed to be an illusion. He wasn't a Republican at all. That was an outer shell he wore for convenience. It turns out he can be anything he says he is. Or nothing at all.

Isn't it amazing how reality is so fragile? And such a simple act, putting a "D" after his name rather than an "R" could have incredibly far-reaching effects if the R's try to filibuster O's programs. For me this is a reminder that how I identify myself can have enormous effects on my life and that of others. And, the way I identify myself is a choice, not a reality. When I chose to identify myself as an alcoholic, it turned my life around. When I chose to identify myself as a musician, it eventually stifled me. It's easy to stay stuck in ideas of who or what I am. The truth is, who I am is constantly changing (along with everything else), and it's up to me to stay current with that. Who know's, maybe tomorrow I'll wake up with an "R" beside my name---Noooooo!!!!

nobody here

Years ago I was playing at a club in Burlington, Vermont on a Monday night. There were only a few people there, and I said into the microphone, "Since nobody's here, I'll play this song." Someone called out, "We're here!" That was a big lesson for me. Performers (and dharma teachers) like an audience--the bigger the better, so as to feed our egos--and our bellys. How many people would have had to be there for me to say that someone was there? I learned something that night. Partly I learned not to dismiss people or be rude to them in that way.

A few years ago I went to teach in Mill Valley, CA and only 2 people showed up. I was disappointed, but we wound up having a great evening where I could work closely with these individuals and guide their practices.

Last night, at the John Muir Medical Center in Concord, CA, the same thing happened. I was grateful for my experience because I didn't have to worry about how many people were there. We had a good evening, the three of us, discussing practice, and they were grateful for the opportunity to ask questions and have a conversation that we wouldn't normally have had.

It's easy to get caught up in "the numbers game," and think that it's a reflection on me or that it's not worth it to teach or perform for a small group of people. Realistically, it would be hard to make a living if my usual group were only 2 people, but that's unusual, so I've learned to enjoy it. One more opportunity to see the way my beliefs are contradicted by the reality of my experience.

Greetings

The past couple years my wife has suggested I start blogging. I've run out of excuses, so here goes. . .

This morning I'm doing a final read-through of my new book "A Burning Desire: Dharma God and the Path of Recovery." The book is an exploration of Higher Power from a Buddhist perspective. As I ponder its publication, I'm a bit nervous out of a combination of my co-dependence--I want to make everyone happy and I want them to like me--and my fear of criticism--people are going to attack me. I'm someone who tends to jump into things without a lot of forethought. Just last night I was putting together an Ikea bookcase and kept doing things backwards and having to undo them and start again because I didn't look carefully before starting to screw and nail things together. This book is a bit like that. There I was wondering what to write about, "La, la, la, maybe I'll do a book on Higher Power. Sure, that sounds easy." Then in the middle of the beast I realized that God is probably the most difficult thing to write about. Too late. I already spent the advance. . .