We Quit Drinking

Seen through the eyes of faith, religion's future is secure. As long as there are human beings, there will be religion for the sufficient reason that the self is a theomorphic creature -- one whose morphe (form) is theos -- God encased within it. Having been created in the imago Dei, the image of God, all human beings have a God-shaped vacuum built into their hearts. Since nature abhors a vacuum, people keep trying to fill the one inside them. Searching for an image of the divine that will fit, they paw over various options as if they were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, matching them successively to the gaping hole at the puzzle's center.... They keep doing this until the right "piece" is found. When it slips into place, life's jigsaw puzzle is solved.

How so? Because the sight of the picture that then emerges is so commanding that it swings attention from the self who is viewing the picture to the picture itself. This epiphany, with its attendant ego-reduction, is salvation in the West and enlightenment in the East.

-- Huston Smith, Why Religion Matters: The Fate of the Human Spirit in an Age of Disbelief, Harper-Collins, 2001, pp. 148-149

Spiritual fulfillment as an alternative to inebriated over-indulgence is a no-brainer. Unfortunately, it hasn't been demonstrated that the two can not coexist. Twelve hundred years ago Li Po demonstrated a profound sensitivity and a seemingly spirit-led creativity that I have long accepted as proof that one can be both a drunkard and spiritually uplifted. On the other hand, my sober reading of the poems at this link reminds me of the isolated circumstances of many people who drink too much.

"Le Bateau Ivre," - I've just completed (ironically) an unsuccessful search for a complete English translation of Rimbaud's "The Drunken Boat". While the story may be apocryphal, I've been given to understand that Li Po drowned when he fell out of a boat trying to capture the moon's reflection in the water. So I've always had these two poets linked in my mind... and if I examine the linkage carefully I find strong images of isolation and riot, clear symbols of death and decay... not at all like the impression of conviviality and good spirits that Rimbaud's modern contemporary, Renoir, conveyed in his 1881 "Luncheon of the Boating Party." In that painting, alcohol integrates the group... the wine is plentiful, the enjoyment of same is obvious. No vomit, no headaches, no untoward behavior here; these people are the "social drinkers" that those of us who party (or partied) hard often find difficult to understand. These people don't seem to be troubled by the thoughts of waking up muzzy headed and trying to find sufficient clarity to perform well, day in and day out.

I thought about crafting a little post for the We Quit Drinking blog, but then I was led to open the mail. Who knows? There might have been a check! Alas there was no money in the mail, but it did contain an unsolicited surprise... Jennifer Elam sent me her book on mysticism and mental illness called "Dancing with God Through the Storm."

So my artsy little post has been somewhat derailed by the fact that I cracked the cover on Jennifer's book. She discusses Gerald May's reflections on authentic spiritual experience... now the fact is that I had typed in the opening strokes by Huston Smith here before I opened the mail and found Jennifer's book, so I do believ in synchronicity and all that good stuff. Gerald May, according to Jennifer Elam, lists eight "guides to discernment... I'm going to lay these out and then sign off:

1. Meaningful integration - spiritual experiences do not exist as isolated "highs."
2. The bearing of good fruit - deepened faith, hope, love, compassion, creativity and trust.
3. Decreased self-preoccupation -
4. Increased self-knowledge -
5. Humility with dignity -
6. An openness to differences -
7. A personal open-endedness -
8. An appreciation for that which is "ordinary" - Authentic experiences may initially be accompanied by celebration and enthusiasm... [but] the integration of those experiences brings a wondrous appreciation for that which is "ordinary."