Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
There is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
Doesn’t make any sense.
— Rumi (13th century), from “A Great Wagon,” translated by Coleman Barks (1995)
I remember one time having this deep-seated resentment towards another member. At the time, it felt airtight—I was right, they were wrong. I spent twenty minutes passionately laying out my case to my sponsor, every detail, every justification. When I finished, he said quietly: “Would you rather be right, or would you rather be happy?”
What my brain understood was that he was telling me to back down. Let it go because I was in the wrong. I turned red hot. My ego said: What doesn’t he get? I was indignant—how dare he side with my nemesis! But that wasn’t it at all. He was asking what I was willing to release for serenity—whether I wanted the satisfaction that comes from winning, or the peace that comes from not needing to.
I don’t even remember now what I was angry about, or at who. But that question has stayed with me. Today, when the barometer runs high, I try to step back and ask myself: how important is it?
The book Alcoholics Anonymous calls resentment the “number one offender.” Its authors knew the world and its people are often quite wrong. But they also learned that the more we fight and try to have our own way, the worse matters get. As in war, the victor only seems to win. The grouch and the brainstorm may be the dubious luxury of “normal” people, but for us these things are poison.
The Twelve and Twelve puts it plainly: “Nothing pays off like restraint of tongue and pen. We must avoid quick-tempered criticism and furious, power-driven argument. The same goes for sulking or silent scorn. These are emotional booby traps baited with pride and vengefulness.”
In active addiction, I built cases in my head, rehearsed arguments, scanned for evidence. The inner courtroom never closed. I confused my positions with my survival.
Step Four asks me to look at my resentments and find my own part. Not because I’m always wrong—but because holding onto these feelings blocks any sense of serenity. I don’t drop the grievance because the other person deserves forgiveness, even though that may be true. I drop it because carrying it is killing me.
The need to be right still flares. But I’ve started to notice it more often, and catch myself before I open my mouth. That’s the work now—not eliminating the impulse, but seeing it rise and choosing not to act on it. Sometimes I still fail. But more often than I used to, I pause.
Rumi’s field isn’t a reward for letting go. It is the letting go.
What argument am I still prosecuting in my mind?
What “booby trap baited with pride” am I still circling?
What would it take to meet someone in that field—without my evidence, without my case?
Would I rather be right, or would I rather be happy?
