Stillpoint

Addiction takes us away from ourselves and not into ourselves, and the lies we use is the road we travel. Every additional lie is like a turnoff from the previous road, until we've turned so many times we can't find our way back.
At that point we are so lost that that we throw down mask and reveal the ugly mess we have been covering up.

Addiction prevents us from loving ourselves compassionately. It could be said that our addictions spring from not loving ourselves compassionately, not accepting ourselves and all our warts, not wanting to sit with the imperfections. So instead we chase things that will bring us excitement or turmoil, because that is better than dealing with those empty spaces within us.

Life includes suffering and loss. The biggest lie we believe is that if we can become good enough, smart enough, strong enough, healthy enough, pretty enough and successful enough we can avoid suffering.

It ain't going to happen. We are born and then we die. In between there is an abundance of joy and happiness to be had, along with the pain and disappointment. They are as interlinked as night and day.

The attempt at covering our pain only leads to greater pain. This is the truism that all psychologists agree upon. Deal with the original pain and we are that much closer to being integrated as humans.

I don't have to be perfect. As a matter of fact I prefer not to be, because it is in my imperfection that that I realize my humanity and can embrace the world.

Sitting with my inadaquacies and learning to find the still point within me is an art. It is also the first step in learning not to run and lose myself in a compulsive activity.

As the poet T. S. Elliot wrote:

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance,
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving.