Meditating on my shortcomings isn’t meditation. It’s dwelling. A great deal of my self-made troubles would go poof if I declared that I was going to go dwell on them. It’s such a condemning word. Dwell. Nothing good ever comes of it, I don’t call it to the floor nearly enough, and I think it secretly runs my life. It’s the stories I tell myself times infinity, the false truths that I rationalize into accepted behavior, and my resentment stew that needs constant stirring.
Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
I meditate to eliminate as many tangential thoughts as possible. Shake the Etch A Sketch and then look forward. Ironically, the only thing I ever could make with an Etch A Sketch were steps.
I’d sometimes thought drinking was a cousin of meditation: a stop-thinking type thing. And it worked; only nothing ever got resolved and new problems were created. More things to dwell on. That’s not self-awareness. That’s self-mutilation. Scars don’t work like the rings on a tree. You can’t trade on a ton of experience messing up. All that’s left is a descending level of sadness, with increasingly embarrassing levels of denial.
For now: I’ve determined God isn’t interested in my details. I don’t need to give him an itinerary. It’s not what I do but how I do it. No more put-offs. As long as I put my sobriety first and God’s got the flashlight, it doesn’t matter where I’m going.