Alcohol as Medicine or Poison

"In the Guhyasamaja Tantra, the Buddha says, 'That which intoxicates

the dualistic mind is the natural antideath potion indeed.'

In the Buddhist tantra, alcohol is used to catalyze the

fundamental energy of intoxication; this is the energy that transmutes

the duality of the apparent world in advaya—not two. In

this way, form, smell, and sound can be perceived literally, as they

are, within the realm of mahasukha, or great joy."

M

AN' S NATURA L PURSUI T is to seek comfort and entertain himself

with all kinds o f sensual pleasures. He wants a secure home, a

happy marriage, stimulating friends, delicious foods, fine clothes, and

good wine. But morality generally teaches that this kind of indulgence is

not good; we should think of our lives in a broader sense. We should

think of our brothers and sisters who lack these things; rather than indulging

ourselves, we should share generously with them.

Moralistic thinking tends to see alcohol as belonging to the category

of excessive self-indulgences; it might even see drinking as a bourgeois

activity. On the other hand, those who like drinking draw a sense of

well-being from it and feel it enables them to be warmer and more open

with their friends and colleagues. But even they often harbor some sense

of guilt about drinking; they fear they might be abusing their bodies and

feel deficient in self-respect.

Composed during 1972 retreat in Charlemont, Massachusetts.

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WORKING WITH OTHERS

One type of drinker works hard during the day, doing heavy labor in

one or another of the physical trades. Such drinkers like to come home

and have a drink after work or raise a glass or two in a hearty gathering

at the bar. Then there are the more genteel drinkers—business executives

and such—who are often in the habit of creating an atmosphere of

conviviality in their business relations by breaking out the bottle. The

latter type is more likely to have a hidden sense of guilt about alcohol

than his proletarian brother celebrating the end of a day's work. Still, in

spite of all doubts, inviting somebody for a drink seems to have more

life to it than inviting somebody for a cup of tea.

Other people drink to try to kill boredom, much in the same way as

they try by smoking. A housewife who has just finished dusting or the

wash might sit down and take a drop while contemplating the decor

or leafing through the latest fashion and home-improvement magazines.

When the baby cries or the doorbell rings, she might take a hefty shot

before facing the situation. The bored office worker might keep a flask

in his desk so he can take an occasional nip between visits from the boss

or his heavy-handed secretary. He might seek relief from the day's ennui

through a lunchtime visit to the bar.

People who take drinking seriously relate to it as a refuge from life's

hustle and bustle; they also fear they might be becoming alcoholics. In

either psychological situation, there is love and hate in their style of

drinking, coupled with a sense of going into the unknown. In some

cases, this journey into the unknown might already have produced a

clarity which, in the present situation, can only be dealt with by drinking.

Otherwise the clarity would be too painful.

One of the problems convinced drinkers might be facing is being

hounded by the moralistic approach to drinking, which raises the artificial

question: should one drink or not? In the grips of this question, one

looks to one's friends for reinforcement. Some of them might join one

in drinking quite freely. Others will have definite reservations about

when and how to drink. The real drinker feels such people are amateurs,

since they have never related wholeheartedly with alcohol. Quite often

their reservations are just a matter of social form: just as one knows that

the place to park one's car is the parking lot, so one has the sense of the

proper point beyond which one shouldn't drink. It is all right to drink

heavily at parties or testimonial dinners so long as one drinks with one's

wife or husband and drives home carefully.

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THE HEART OF THE BUDDHA

There seems to be something wrong with an approach to alcohol

that is based entirely on morality or social propriety. The scruples implied

have solely to do with the external effects of one's drinking. The

real effect of alcohol is not considered, but only its impact on the social

format. On the other hand, a drinker feels that there is something worthwhile

in his drinking aside from the pleasure he or she gets out of it.

There are the warmth and openness that seem to come from the relaxation

of his usual self-conscious style. Also there is the confidence of

being able to communicate his perceptions accurately, which cuts

through his usual feeling of inadequacy. Scientists find they are able to

solve their problems; philosophers have new insights; and artists find

clear perception. The drinker experiences greater clarity because he feels

more really what he is; therefore daydreams and fantasies can be temporarily

put aside.

It seems that alcohol is a weak poison which is capable of being transmuted

into medicine. A n old Persian folktale tells how the peacock

thrives on poison, which nourishes his system and brightens his

plumage.

The word whiskey comes from the Gaelic uisgebeatha, which means

"water of life." The Danes have their aquavit. The Russian potato produces

vodka, the "little water." The traditional names imply that alcohol

is at the least harmless, probably medicinal. Harmless or medicinal, the

power of alcohol has affected social and psychological structures in most

parts of the world throughout history. In Indian mysticism, both Hindu

and Buddhist, alcohol is called amrita, the potion that is antideath. Birwapa,

an Indian siddha, won enlightenment when he drank seven gallons

of liquor in one afternoon. Mr. Gurdjieff, a spiritual teacher who

taught in Europe, spoke of the virtues of "conscious drinking" and insisted

that his students do conscious drinking together. Conscious drinking

is a real and obvious demonstration of mind over matter. It allows

us to relate to the various stages of intoxication: we experience our expectations,

the almost devilish delight when the effect begins to be felt,

and the final breakdown into frivolity in which habitual boundaries

begin to dissolve.

Nevertheless, alcohol can as easily be a death potion as a medicine.

The sense of joviality and heartiness can seduce us to relinquish our

awareness. But fortunately there is also a subtle depression that goes

with drinking. There is a strong tendency to latch on to the heartiness

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WORKING WITH OTHERS

and ignore the depression; this is the ape instinct. It is a great mistake. I f

we take alcohol merely as a substance that will cheer us up or loosen us

up like a sedative, it becomes exceedingly dangerous. It is the same with

alcohol as with anything else in life that we relate to only partially.

There is a great difference between alcohol and other inebriants. In

contrast with alcohol, such substances as LSD, marijuana, and opium do

not bring simultaneous depression. I f depression does occur, it is of a

purely conceptual nature. But with alcohol, there are always physical

symptoms: weight gain, loss of appetite, increased feeling of solidity

(which includes hangovers). There is always the sense that one still has

a body. Psychologically, intoxication with alcohol is a process of coming

down, rather than, as with the other substances, of going up into space.

Whether alcohol is to be a poison or a medicine depends on one's

awareness while drinking. Conscious drinking—remaining aware of

one's state of mind—transmutes the effect of alcohol. Here awareness

involves a tightening up of one's system as an intelligent defense mechanism.

Alcohol becomes destructive when one gives in to the joviality:

letting loose permits the poisons to enter one's body. Thus alcohol can

be a testing ground. It brings to the surface the latent style of the drinker's

neuroses, the style that he is habitually hiding. I f his neuroses are

strong and habitually deeply hidden, he later forgets what happened

when he was drunk or else is extremely embarrassed to remember what

he did.

Alcohol's creativity begins when there is a sense of dancing with its

effect—when one takes the effects of drink with a sense of humor. For

the conscious drinker, or for the yogi, the virtue of alcohol is that it

brings one down to ordinary reality, so that one does not dissolve into

meditation on nonduality. In this case alcohol acts as a longevity potion.

Those who are overly involved with the sense that the world is a mirage,

an illusion, have to be brought down out of their meditation into a state

of nonmeditation to relate with people. In this state, the sights, sounds,

and smells of the world become overwhelmingly poignant with their

humor. When the yogi drinks, it is his way of accepting the dualistic

world of ordinary appearance. The world demands his attention—his relationship

and compassion. He is glad and amused to have this invitation

to communicate.

For the yogi, alcohol is fuel for relating with his students and with

the world in general, as gasoline allows a motorcar to relate with the

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