Do the Next Right Thing

What used to be the hunch or the occasional inspiration gradually becomes a working part of the mind. Being still inexperienced and having just made conscious contact with God, it is not probable that we are going to be inspired at all times. We might pay for this presumption in all sorts of absurd actions and ideas. Nevertheless, we find that our thinking will, as time passes, be more and more on the plane of inspiration. We come to rely upon it. 
— Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 87

Around the rooms I have heard it said: “Do the next right thing,” as if the “thing” were self-evident. I have come to believe that knowing the next right thing is a skill that develops over time—an inner voice that grows clearer through practice, an intuition that lives somewhere deeper than thought. When I was new, my head was cluttered with ego: scheming, people-pleasing, attention-seeking, poor-me’s. The Big Book names this spiritual disease—this selfishness and self-centredness—the condition of being trapped inside my own mind. My compass spun wildly, pointing only at myself.

When I came back the last time, I kept relapsing over and over. I could not understand why. In the past I had always been able to fall back into my old recovery routine. This time was different. I had gotten lost even deeper in my head. I did not want to follow anything or listen to anybody. My wall had gone up very high.

I am not sure at what point things changed. I think it was an accumulation of small experiences, both while I was in and while I was out, that had a cumulative effect. I stopped making things so complicated. I focused on the basics: waking up on time, going to meetings, eating better, sleeping better, exercise, building a routine. This laid the groundwork. Then I let people in—stopped holding them at arm’s length—and really got to know them. I stopped talking all the time, one mechanism I use to protect myself, and learned to listen instead.

A pivotal moment came at the world convention in Vancouver. I signed up for service, not because I wanted to, but because I had heard from others it was the right thing to do. Because of it, I met people from the fellowship from all around the world and experienced a sense of connection I had not felt in a long time. When I got home, I felt empty. I almost relapsed, as if I could not capture the same feeling I had there. I went to my homegroups, in two different fellowships, and when one group needed a secretary, I said yes. When the other asked for an alt-GSR, I said yes. I started arriving early and leaving late. I joined the Alkathon committee. And there, simply, without effort, without any conscious thought on my part other than doing the next right thing, I was standing in the middle of the herd again. I felt safe.

Something had shifted. I began to care more deeply—about the people in my groups, about others, and about my own wellbeing. My work too took on more integrity. My connection to my birth family deepened. Confidence returned. My compass, that had been whirling without direction for so long, finally steadied. The needle stopped spinning and pointed outward—toward other people. And the less time I spent in my head, the more at home I felt in my skin. There are still hiccups—flashes of resentment or fear or selfishness—but I have tools to deal with them now.

For over a year I attended morning meetings where we read the stories at the end of the Big Book. People’s stories. People like me, who came to the fellowship and sat along the periphery of the circle, but who, with time and guidance and living the spiritual principles behind the steps, moved to the centre of the triangle. I am still learning, and I am still teachable. That is the greatest gift recovery has given me. The next right thing is still not always self-evident, but more and more I am guided by that voice found deep down within me. It has grown louder, when I open my heart to it.