Leslie Jamison weaves cultural critique into her memoir about alcohol and creativity.
Two journalists unpack the history, the scale of the epidemic, and who’s to blame
What happens if our religious dialogue becomes an endless, insufferable holiday office party, where the mean drunk becomes the focal point of everyone’s energy?
The truth of God's grace is always messier than appearances let on.
One day Bill didn't show up at the church, so we went to find him.
It's not enough to restrict the supply of pills. We need long-term treatment for people who are addicted, and we need to pay for it.
Wine is a good gift from God. Coca-Cola is not. (But is it really that simple?)
Small deceptions work like a narcotic, making us feel nicely respectable. Especially in church.
I staggered through my house that morning, knowing I was out of coffee. I took multiple trips around the house looking for my shoes, finally settled for outrageously large climbing boots, then took multiple trips looking for my keys. I finally jumped on my motorcycle—adrenaline is a good substitute for endorphins when you get older—and broke many laws getting to the local caffeine clinic. Upon arriving I had the sinking realization that my man-purse was not in my backpack. At this point all my training as a contemplative was out the window.
The early history of Alcoholics Anonymous has always fascinated me, so I was eager to see the much heralded new documentary Bill W.
A healing community in Nashville