I might be an egomaniac but I like the way my brain works – I always have.  I like the way it races from one idea to the other in less than a second.  I like the way I can map how it got from start to finish.  I like the way it is so sure of itself – even when everyone else is sure of the opposite.  I like the way it can think in several languages at once – how it can speak “painting” and “poetry”.  When it sees a painting – it doesn’t need to have the painting explained with words, or poetry explained by prose.  It is quite content to dwell in abstracts, no strings attached to the ground.

In my twenties, I had a choice.  Live a life of pain or alter your brain with mind-numbing drugs.   I found another way.  I found people who would teach me how to harness the power of my brain.  I was taught how to sleep, how to breathe, how to dream.  I was taught how to look at myself in the mirror everyday and not see me but the disease, my enemy, and say out loud to it – you can be here all day, if you like, but I have things I need to do today.  You can have me after I’m done.   It was a slow process but eventually my enemy had less and less of me while I had more and more of myself.

While I was learning the skills that would give me my life back a teacher explained shamans to me.  They are other beings, beings who vibrate differently than the rest of us.  They are touched by the universe and given knowledge of things we can never know.  We call them all sorts of names in all kinds of religions but their function is the same – to tell us who we are, why we are.  Because they are touched by the universe, they can swim into deep waters against powerful forces.  Power that would drown the rest of us.

I’ve never known addiction, except for a brief flirtation with bright orange cheese popcorn.  But, to me addiction seems like dipping your toe into the water, enjoying the way it feels and then jumping into the deep end before you’ve learned to swim, before you even understand the nature of water.  We aren’t shamans – we drown when we swim in waters too deep for us.

I love a young man who jumped into the pool and is drowning.  He has reached his arm out and asked us to save him.  We’re trying like hell to reach him but the water seems to be winning.  I’m not leaving the side of the pool while he’s still in it.   Like I did several years ago, I’ve called in teachers.  Gifted people that I hope can teach to him what my teachers taught to me.   Although I can’t understand what addiction feels like or even say I know what he’s going through, maybe I can offer him something I know about.   When he’s out of the water, I can teach him to stare down his disease, to see it as the enemy,  to live in the shadow of it without losing sight of the sun.  And maybe eventually he’ll learn how to dream, again.  Would you say a prayer for him?