At the International Convention, one of the opening speakers said, “If I’m willing, my Higher Power will always show up at the meeting.” When I was new, the idea that God could speak to me through other ordinary human beings just didn’t register. Shouldn’t He part the clouds and speak with thunder and lightning, or maybe rent a billboard? I mean, c’mon, I’m special!

That attitude keeps me sick, y’all. As long as I think I know better than everybody else, I can’t hear what God says through them. (Usually I can’t hear much of anything beyond the noise of my own ego, but that’s another post.)

Besides my puffy, swollen ego, I armored up against listening to protect myself. Opening myself to truly hear, in an alcoholic environment, meant exposing myself to ridicule and rejection. Not coincidentally, I became a very poor listener. (In fact, I have a terrible auditory memory, and I’m pretty sure it’s a defense mechanism–my brain literally keeps me from hearing. How’s that for a survival skill?)

I did not know how to listen. I didn’t know what listening was. When other people spoke, I was always playing either defense or offense. The idea of actually receiving another person’s words never crossed my mind. I gathered information I could use to manipulate people, places and things. I had objectives. I made assumptions while waiting for my turn to talk.

That’s the thinking that qualifies me for this program.

Turns out that every meeting I go to is full of amazing people who know lots of things I don’t. And it’s funny how often the most annoying person in the room will say the exact thing I needed to hear that day. That’s my Higher Power’s way of reminding me to quit being so damn judgy. I think He finds it entertaining, too. Principles above personalities, no joke.

The people I admire and adore say helpful things, too. But there’s something about making the effort to truly listen to a person who rubs me the wrong way. That genuine intent to listen uncovers gold.

You spot it, you got it

For instance, there’s my buddy A., whom I love in a very special way. He veers into politics, and he rants, and he’s hard to listen to sometimes. One of his favorite phrases is, “You spot it, you got it.” No matter the topic, he says it in nearly every share.

The first 20 or 30 times I heard it, I didn’t grasp its depth. Now I think that one slogan could almost be my whole program. Observing my own reactions to others’ behavior and figuring out why it hits me like that–that’s how I get to know myself. What character defects come off the bench when I feel angry or scared or ignored or whatever the ‘crap du jour’ is, as he puts it?

I had no idea that my reactions to other people are a function of my personality. Not until I meditated on “You spot it, you got it” a few hundred times, that is. My responses shine light on my character defects?! Who knew? I thought all my reactions were the fault of, you know, other people.

The punch line came a couple of years later, at a different meeting, where I learned that “You spot it, you got it” is only half the slogan–“And if it makes you mad, you’ve got it bad!”

Ugh! That means I’ve got it pretty damn bad. What rhymes with ‘terminal?’

Learning to listen

One of the things I’ve grown to love most about meetings is that the other people there are Not Like Me. I say ‘grown to love’ because at first I used this as an excuse not to listen.

I used everything as an excuse not to absorb and apply things. Well, yeah, that works for her, she doesn’t have kids still at home. Or, Yeah, but that’s her husband, and my problem is my kid. Or, the big one, Yeah, but I’m different.

But soon I wanted what they had. I became willing. My desire to Not Be Crazy Anymore slowly won out over my terminal uniqueness. The hard shell developed some cracks. This was not a conscious decision, because I didn’t even know I had a shell until it began to come loose.

Little by little, I started to see that my insides were a lot more like theirs than I ever imagined. And then a wonderful thing happened. I saw that it was okay for other people not to be like me. It was okay for me not to be like them. All those differences were just…differences. Not better or worse or good or bad. Gradually I found I could handle people without putting labels on them–without putting them in boxes. That was a miracle.

The next miracle happened soon after. I didn’t really ‘listen’ to Partner Qualifier so much as I endured him talking–like sprinting across the parking lot to the car in a hard rainstorm. Then one day, as I sat clenched against his words, waiting for it to be over, it occurred to me to wonder what it would be like to pretend he was someone talking in a meeting.

Can I do that? Isn’t that kind of listening reserved for the sacred circle? Don’t I need the protection of the structure of the meeting in order to be open?

Well, I reasoned, trying it probably won’t kill me. And it didn’t. I was totally amazed to find that the same tools that worked in meetings worked outside meetings, too. For very short periods I could set aside my armor and listen to him as if he was–wait for it–a person. I started taking him out of the box labeled ‘a**hole’ and started trying to see how his insides might be like mine.

The fact that this was a complete revelation to me gives you some idea of how sick I was. And the funny part is that I always blamed him for being a crappy listener. You spot it, you got it!

The old defenses still pop up sometimes, but the miracle continues. Little by little, one day at a time, I get better at it. The more I listen, the more I see and value the person, and the less the disease is the focus of our relationship. He doesn’t even have to be like me. That’s recovery, y’all!

I can listen now because I know who I am. I don’t have to be afraid of getting lost in another’s words, or of absorbing their feelings until mine are pushed aside. I can make space for your words and still be me.

All of you taught me how to listen. You’re still teaching me. I’m so grateful for that.

Keep coming back!