Step Five: Part Two

Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs

We’re returning to the twelve steps from a Buddhist perspective (or: this particular Buddhist’s perspective) following a brief pause. Two weeks ago, I offered a reflection on the first word of Step Five. What is the spirit in which we share Step Four’s “searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves”? What are we encouraging through an admission of our conduct? Here I want to focus on the importance of including “another human being” in the process.

I recently returned from a trip and discovered that I was drained both emotionally and mentally. (I expected a certain physical tiredness—thirty-eight hours of driving in a short time is a lot for some of us.) It was difficult to sustain a conversation, as focusing on and retaining another’s words happened only intermittently. And it still is. My mood shifted quickly, from bright to gloomy. And it still does. I was irritable and, most important in this context, shaky. The last is a word that I often use when I feel the beginnings of a full-blown craving to drink. Whether that process is just beginning or we’re well into it, I feel shaky—I don’t feel safe and secure; I feel afraid. And I still do.

Of what am I afraid? Not that I will pick up a bottle, interestingly. Rather, I am afraid of what I anticipate would follow if I were to pick up a bottle: an overwhelming cocktail of disappointment, failure, regret, shame, and a dozen other feelings. I pass over the all-important intermediate step and proceed directly to the feared consequences for my emotional and mental well-being.

So, I am going for refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. With respect to the third Treasure, I made it a priority to share my shaky-ness with other human beings—my partner, my Guiding Teacher, those present at recovery meetings, and all of you too.

Why does Step Five encourage sharing one’s inventory with another human being? More to the point: why are other people important—indeed, necessary—in recovery? The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions says, in its chapter on Step Five, that through the process “we shall get rid of that terrible sense of isolation.” It goes on to mention the risk of continued self-deception, the importance of receiving “direct comment and counsel on our situation,” and the likelihood of quickly becoming too comfortable in a room occupied only by us and our Higher Power. So comfortable, in fact, that “our willingness to clean house [remains] largely theoretical.”

It’s all right to think through and about the recovery process. Dilemmas will arise, for instance, regardless of the specific program that supports us. We may need to sit down with them for a while. At some point, however, it is necessary to act. As my first sponsor often reminded me, “The title of Chapter 6 [of the Big Book] is ‘Into Action’ not ‘Into Thinking,’ Michael!”

That “terrible sense of isolation,” however—that is the real danger. I can say with clarity that my own isolation (and concomitant fear) during the period of slow self-destruction kept me there. If I had been willing to share my situation sooner, I would not have needed to suffer so much.

Photo by Sabine Schulte on Unsplash

Traditionally, Buddhist teaching identifies two main causes of suffering. Sometimes the emphasis is on craving. We become attached to certain, usually pleasurable, experiences. At the same time, we become averse to their absence; whether that absence takes the form of a neutral experience or a painful experience doesn’t matter much. We want pleasure. Yet all things are continually and constantly changing, including ourselves. Taizan Maezumi Roshi would often tell his students

[…] in a twenty-four hour period alone we are being born and dying 6,500,000,000 times. It is so fast we cannot notice it.

Despite our best efforts, we cannot hold onto what we want. Similarly, we cannot avoid meeting with that which we do not want. As a result, we suffer—we find life unsatisfactory.

Other times, however, the teaching’s emphasis is on ignorance. “Our fundamental human delusion is the belief that mind and object are really separate, and that self and other have independent existence,” writes Tenshin Reb Anderson Roshi. We believe that there is the whole world and, in addition to the whole world, that there is a little something called “I”. From this foundational belief, there arises anxiety and fear. Do others care about me? Am I safe here? Will I be loved and supported out there? How can I tell? How can I know?

Our mere existence becomes uncomfortable, and instinctively we search for sources of safety and security. What we find, however, are experiences because of which we feel safe and secure but only temporarily; they’re frustratingly fleeting and transitory. Still, we try our very best to hold onto them or, as a fall-back, we endeavor to recreate those experiences as quickly as possible. We become caught in a cycle of craving, where our efforts are ultimately and necessarily unsuccessful. We cannot hold onto what we want, though we try desperately. We cannot avoid meeting with that which we do not want, though we try with great energy. As a result, we suffer—we find life unsatisfactory.

Here’s the thing, though: we don’t have to suffer. We might believe that “mind and object are really separate, and that self and other have independent existence,” but it’s not the case. We’re fundamentally, deeply connected to each other. In fact, the whole of what and who you are is made of “non-you” elements, stretching far and wide throughout the universe in the ten directions. You’re in relationship with everything, always, and all of it works together to care for and support you.

Sometimes it’s really difficult to feel that, though. And that’s why the act of sharing with another human being where you are, how you are, is so important. When we open ourselves up to another—risking vulnerability—it’s then that we cut through the illusion of separation that is the root of suffering. We need to cut through this illusion again and again in our life, and it becomes easier with practice. We’re able to identify the many ways in which it manifests, its different forms, shapes, and colors, and even greet its arrival with a smile. “Oh, you again? Well, all right. Welcome back. Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”

That first share, however, that first time you unburden yourself to another human being, takes great courage, great faith. As you’re cutting through that feeling of separateness, it can feel really uncomfortable, disorienting even. That’s all right. Pay attention to the act, not the feeling, for “faith in oneself occurs even in total confusion,” says Kobun Chino Roshi. Great confidence in ourselves is the cornerstone of liberation—and it’s always there, even if we can’t see it.

The quotation from Taizan Maezumi Roshi was taken from “Appreciate Your Life: The Essence of Zen Practice.”

The quotation from Tenshin Reb Anderson Roshi was taken from “Being Upright: Zen Meditation and the Bodhisattva Precepts.”

The quotation from Kobun Chino Roshi was taken from “Embracing Mind: The Zen Talks of Kobun Chino Otogawa.”