I wasn’t raised in any sort of religion. My parents never went to church. My father was raised in an Anglican tradition, but didn’t practice faith at all in adulthood. His only statement on religion was this, “They all say the same thing—live by the golden rule.” My mother was raised in a fire and brimstone style of protestant church and turned away from religion as soon as she could escape her family as a young adult. As for myself, I actually ‘shopped around’ as a young adult, going to different places of worship, seeking something to believe in. Nothing appealed. But I did find a spiritual home in some Eastern traditions mixed with some New Age spiritualism. I learned Reiki, read about theosophy, studied hermetic and various occult philosophies. I resonated with indigenous spiritualities that I learned about from sitting at the feet of elders and attending sweat lodges and other ceremonies. Being out in nature was my church.

When I first got sober almost 25 years ago, I joined a Twelve Step fellowship, I was so desperate to recover that I was willing to try anything to make it work. Believe in a God of my understanding? Sure, why not? What’s the worst that could happen? There’s no God, and I’m believing in an imaginary friend. Well, I spent most of my life believing that I was able to drink with impunity and manage my life. At least if there’s no God, my illusion isn’t going to kill me. So I willingly (willfully, even?) became a believer.

I did what other believers suggested. I prayed on my knees when I rolled out of bed each morning. I prayed at night on my knees at my bedside. The first three of the Twelve Steps I translated as “I can’t. He can. And I’ll let Him”, even though the God of my understanding was ungendered. When I took stock of the harm I had done during my life, I confessed it to my sponsor as we prayed that God forgive me and help me to forgive myself. I prayed that God would remove all my defects of character so that I may be useful to others. My life became God-centred. Yet, in spite of my faith and reliance upon a power greater than myself, I remained very self-centred. I was told that self-reliance was a problem for the alcoholic. I needed to give it all up to God.

Thirteen years later, living in a lovely place by the ocean and studying in a doctoral program, both gifts of recovery, I relapsed and almost drank myself to death. Somewhere along the way, I had lost the capacity to be honest with myself. I had collided with everyone and everything I touched. My friends had turned into adversaries. Colour drained out of my life and then out of the world around me. I no longer returned to the beach to stroll and look for sea glass. I lost my faith; I was isolating, and whatever spark inside that kept me going strong had burned out. All this happened before I picked up that drink. It was just like they said: picking up a drink is just the period at the end of the sentence. I left the life of recovery, the fellowship of peers in recovery, the meetings, the Steps, and the path of spiritual growth. I went into severe isolation.

Once again, I stopped drinking, this time on my own. I tried a bit of controlled drinking once in a while, but the fight against the craving to seek oblivion made it not worth the struggle. Eventually I swore it off for good. I continued to drift further and further away from being connected to or caring about anything or anyone. For a couple of years, I was able to care for my dying father. I was there for him every hour of every day. I don’t think I would’ve been able to do this had I not experienced some good-quality recovery earlier in my life. Caring for my father was not something I debated with myself about—I just did it. He often thanked me, and I always replied, “It’s a labour of love, Dad. And there’s so much love it’s hardly any labour at all.”

After my father died and I settled his estate, I was preparing to end my miserable existence. Never before was I so alone in my life, not even at the end of my worst drinking. I had no friends, my siblings were going through their own grief, and I had lost spiritual connection to anything and everything, not even nature. But I couldn’t end my life. I had hit bottom before, some twenty years earlier, and I reached out for help and found recovery. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could find my way out of the dark and empty existence into which I allowed myself to drift. So, I reached out, went to see my family doctor, and I told him that I was about to give up. That began my current iteration of recovery. Recovery 2.0, I suppose.

Today, coming up to two years back in recovery, working the Secular Twelve Steps, I am gradually finding my way back into humanity. I’m doing it without a God of my understanding. Rather than a supernatural power greater than myself, I rely on the collective power that exists in my recovery community. I lean on peers who have come before me. I draw upon my own power-from-within, which grows stronger every day. I practice forms of meditation instead of prayer. I don’t ask God to remove my shortcomings—I do the work required to discover what balancing principles counter any destructive impulses and maladaptive behaviours and practice healthy responses to them (e.g., humility for pride; mindfulness for fear). I rely on the wisdom of others, the kindness of my new friends, and serve my community in the most useful ways that I can. I sponsor another on their journey through the Secular Twelve Steps. I do all this without belief in or reliance upon a Higher Power. I have found faith in the process of recovery rather than in a supernatural force I have trouble believing in. I experience all the benefits of the program of recovery and am able to be of use to others without having to believe in something that I don’t believe is real.

And yet through this whole process of coming back to life, of coming back into life, I am starting to become aware of a deeper connection to some dimension that lies within. I suppose you could call it ‘soul.’ It tugs at my awareness. It’s a part of me but not-me. Or am I just a part of it? I feel like I need to be careful with this. I don’t trust my myself when it comes to any kind of spiritual belief. My past experience has taught me that I too easily tumble down a rabbit hole when it comes to spiritual matters. I throw myself at the mystery, believing I’ve found some sort of revelatory truth.

Maybe belief is not really what I need to grasp onto. Perhaps my best course of action is to simply explore this connection. Be in the presence of soul, or whatever it is. Be with the I-thou-it that tugs at my consciousness. Follow its trail of crumbs, always seeking, find the next crumb, pick it up, hold it, look at it, and just be with it, for a while. No need to name it or categorize it. Then, after a moment or a day or a year, just set it down and take another step toward the next crumb. If I ever come to believe I’ve ‘got it’, that I’ve found ‘truth’, I’ve already begun to lose it.

Belief is a box. The spiritual journey lies outside the box.