23
When I get to the dilapidated old church at the corner of Sprague and Sedgwick Streets, and sprint down the stairs to the dingy basement, the room is already aglow with candlelight. A circle of chairs has been set up and flickering embers illuminate all the different faces—some old, some young, some pudgy, others gaunt. These are the faces that haunt me when I get a sudden urge to use. The faces that offer embers in the darkness of my mind.
The Monday Night Eleventh Step Meditation Meeting is the AA equivalent of a restorative yoga class. As I glance around at the sober silhouettes, I feel as if, in this moment anyway, we are stronger than the sum of our addictions. Then, just as quickly, recognition slams into me—as if I weren’t looking where I was going and crashed straight into a w
