“Tell us where you used to hide your bottles and tell us about that hot-flash spiritual experience of yours.”
Telling by telling
In December 1934, a few days into his last stay at Towns Hospital, Bill W. had the experience he spent the rest of his life describing (The bedside, in The Little Doctor, tells the night itself). He told it in books, in talks to doctors and clergy, on tape and in letters, and the telling changed.
The first written telling was “Bill’s Story,” set down in 1938 for the Big Book. There the experience comes the moment he accepts the program Ebby T. had laid out for him. There is no cry and no white light. “The effect was electric,” he wrote, and he felt lifted up “as though the great clean wind of a mountain top blew through and through.” The wind is a likeness, and he gives what happened no name.
Eleven years later, in a paper read to the American Psychiatric Association in Montreal, the night had become a scene. He cries out to God, and “the place lit up, blinding white.” He seems to stand on a mountain in a wind “not of air, but of Spirit,” and a thought comes: “You are a free man!” His taped memories of 1954 and his talk at AA’s St. Louis convention in 1955 tell it the same way, at greater length.
What he called it changed too. In the 1950s it was his sudden spiritual experience, or his sudden awakening. Writing to Carl Jung in 1961, he called it “an illumination of enormous impact and dimension.”
Members had a shorter name. After the Traditions came out in 1946, Bill remembered, letters asked him to come and talk about his “hot-flash spiritual experience.” Pass It On, AA’s biography of Bill, says he used the name himself, to make light of it. Wherever he uses it in his own writings on hand here, he gives it as other people’s word.
It’s May 1949, in Montreal. Bill W. is telling a room full of psychiatrists about a night nearly fifteen years earlier, at Towns Hospital in New York.
He cried out to God, he says, and “the place lit up, blinding white.” He seemed to stand on a mountain, in a great wind, and a thought came to him: “You are a free man!”
Bill’s own chapter of the Big Book, written in 1938, tells the same night with no cry and no white light. Only a lift, he wrote, like a wind on a mountain top.
He told that night for the rest of his life, and each telling was a little different. Members came to call it his hot flash. AA’s biography of him says he called it that first, and they took it up.