A few weeks ago, I attended a yoga class taught by my friend Robyn. It was a stressful day, but as soon as I set foot in the studio I felt better. Maybe it was the incense, the soft music playing in the background, and the generally peaceful atmosphere a yoga class creates... but moreso than that, I think I was comforted just by virtue of knowing I was doing something good for myself. Certainly the surroundings made it easier to relax, but maybe it was my conscious intention to set that time aside for myself that allowed me to access that elusive inner peace.
I often wonder if integrating some kind of regular spiritual practice into my life would be good for me. Times like that yoga class remind me of how lovely it feels to return to that peaceful place. The most natural choice for me would be someplace like Sat Yoga, the center I attended in Costa Rica: weekly group meditations and discussions led by a teacher. Every place is different, and I definitely did not resonate with all of the teachings I encountered there, but I think at the time I had it in my head that I HAD to integrate those teachings to achieve enlightenment... ugh, I hate that word. Let's just say peace and happiness. That's all I want. Anyway, I thought that if only I could get past my own resistance, clear up my confusion, and make myself understand, surely I would experience these states of mind everyone there raved about.
More and more, I realize how poorly this way of thinking serves me. I suppose part of my hesitancy to join a Buddhist center in Florida stems from the fear that I have to put forth all kinds of effort to access these teachings. I did visit a Tibetan Buddhist temple in Delray recently, armed, of course, with my usual lofty expectations of wisdom to be gained. I thought that if I was going, it must be meant to be, and that I would definitely vibe with this place. Silly, huh? I didn't end up vibing with it at all. They were pretty traditional: chanting, prostrations, and recitation of sutras. Growing up in a fully Western, fully areligious household, I don't think I'll ever get used to stuff like that. And I shouldn't have to!
But again, I had set a clear intention: I wanted to learn something from that experience, and learn I did. But that wisdom didn't come from anything that was said during the lecture, which flew a little over my head, it came from myself: I learned that I don't have to TRY to accept anything I don't vibe with right away. It should be easy. I guess the overachiever in me is ready to accept any amount of hard work to get somewhere, but if one is to take solace in a spiritual practice, it should be the exact opposite. Isn't my whole purpose in pursuing a spiritual path to relieve myself of burdens? It seems so duh now: the practice itself shouldn't create the worry that I "just wasn't ready" or make me feel bad that I wasn't as ascended as the people around me... and thus burden me more.
Why seek out a spiritual community in the first place? For someone like me, who's so big on self-reliance and trusting my own inner guide, is it necessary? Maybe not, but I want to find the right one for a couple reasons, and they're pretty simple: I love learning. I love intellectual discussions with people who are interested in the same things as me. And I love the sense of groundedness that comes with routine.
So I'll do it. That was easy.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A few poems
Mine
Day of rest, day of reckoning:
cigarette burns down to nothing as I write,
like most things, it flares up, is bright,
and then dies.
Dreams are born and dreams are
extinguished, and I find myself
clutching them as if they were my
children, to be nourished, fed,
and then let go.
I search round every corner for a way
out of this maze, some palm-frond
shimmer to guide me back
to greatness.
Bravery, honor: these words mean nothing
to me. We are worlds apart and worlds apart
and worlds apart...
Still, it is your choice to honor the
life you've been given by willingly
walking, tight-lipped, into the machine jaws
of military madness.
And I always wanted it to be your choice.
Woman
Last night, woman, your face reminded me
of his, pomegranates swelling up in your cheeks,
youthful and radiant.
Something in me craves their roundness,
craves the curves, because we both know
nothing is ever as easy or simple as a
straight line.
Ode to Smoke
I could hardly stifle a gag when I
breathed you out, harsh yet comforting
to my lungs.
Nausea, my tired old friend. Sometimes I
wish I could purge myself of everything,
dust, smoke, my demons, my patterns,
and start anew, my memory swiped
clean as a shiny metal operating table
without the body.
Relieve me of these burdens and someday
I shall be released.
Day of rest, day of reckoning:
cigarette burns down to nothing as I write,
like most things, it flares up, is bright,
and then dies.
Dreams are born and dreams are
extinguished, and I find myself
clutching them as if they were my
children, to be nourished, fed,
and then let go.
I search round every corner for a way
out of this maze, some palm-frond
shimmer to guide me back
to greatness.
Bravery, honor: these words mean nothing
to me. We are worlds apart and worlds apart
and worlds apart...
Still, it is your choice to honor the
life you've been given by willingly
walking, tight-lipped, into the machine jaws
of military madness.
And I always wanted it to be your choice.
Woman
Last night, woman, your face reminded me
of his, pomegranates swelling up in your cheeks,
youthful and radiant.
Something in me craves their roundness,
craves the curves, because we both know
nothing is ever as easy or simple as a
straight line.
Ode to Smoke
I could hardly stifle a gag when I
breathed you out, harsh yet comforting
to my lungs.
Nausea, my tired old friend. Sometimes I
wish I could purge myself of everything,
dust, smoke, my demons, my patterns,
and start anew, my memory swiped
clean as a shiny metal operating table
without the body.
Relieve me of these burdens and someday
I shall be released.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A word on compassion
All the world's religions talk about compassion. We usually think of compassion as altruistic action: donating money to a charity, proudly brandishing a "find the cure" ribbon on the car, maybe volunteering once a week at a soup kitchen. We're told that good people are selfless people. As a privileged, self-indulgent, generally lazy American, I've often been puzzled at my own disinterest in participating in any of these kinds of activities. Shouldn't I be absolving my guilt somehow, finding a way to cope with the crushing sense of shame that comes with being born in the richest country in the world, full of luxury and unearned advantages? I mean, I don't even usually give bums money on the street. Am I too self-absorbed to give a damn about the poverty and injustice that plagues so much of the world? The short answer is yes.
Let's take a closer look at compassion. Many people, when asked why they volunteer or protest or whatever else, will say that it makes them feel that they are doing good. It makes them feel good. About themselves. Whether it is liberal guilt or compassion for compassion's sake that serves as motivation, these actions are sometimes nothing more than self-absorption cloaked in the cherished idea of "selflessness." And the more defensive you get about that assertion, brash as it may seem, the more likely it is that it hits home.
But what's so wrong with being self-centered?
Okay, so arrogance and self-absorption in others irritate us. But the kind of self-centeredness, more rightfully called self-orientedness, I'm talking about actually intimately relates to the virtue of compassion. Traditionally, ego and compassion are like the two relatives who can't be in a room together without arguing. They just don't get along. But in order to be compassionate, we have to pay attention to ourselves first.
Meditation opens up the portal of self-awareness; when perfected, the technique draws the curtain on all our ego's machinations and brings them into full light. We become acutely aware of moods and their influence instead of being ruled by them. Instead of hitching onto a thought like a runaway on a train, we take a step back and simply observe it passing like a cloud in the sky. The goal of meditation is observation without judgment, and because we get to know ourselves better in the process, it is the first step to becoming compassionate.
I remember when I first started meditating, what I found disturbed and shocked me. Did I really talk to myself that way?! It was almost comical, witnessing how I would berate myself for petty things like spending money on shoes instead of saving it, for eating that extra slice of pizza, for smoking a whole pack of cigarettes in a day. Life is full of "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts," and humans are pretty good at generating a whole lot of useless guilt over not adhering to their own personal code of "goodness." Whether it's our diets, our relationships, or our productivity, we just don't do enough, we don't measure up. We are not good enough. Everyone has felt self-loathing at some point in their lives, and for many of us, it eats away at us in subtle ways. Why did I just snap at my mom? I can't believe I'm feeling jealous over that girl that works with my boyfriend. I should strive to be better. This familiar dialogue runs unsolicited through our heads, taking on different disguises, but underneath lies the same demon: self-criticism.
And that demon is an ugly one. The cliche that you can't love others before you love yourself is the truth. We all have skeletons in our closets, and unless we air them out, they're going to rot away and make everything stink. But once you look them in the face, you realize they're not so hideous after all. When we talk about our jealousy, our indulgence of choice, or our guilt with others, that commiseration brings love. We don't think of our friends as terrible people for occasionally screwing up, so shouldn't we go a little easier on ourselves? I should add in as a caveat here to not let self-criticism become just another demon to exorcise: it's okay that you feel it. When we meditate, we don't seek to detach from or escape emotions, as some common misinterpretations lead you to believe. Feel its wrath completely and fully, and let yourself know it's okay to make mistakes. And it's okay to torture yourself for it afterwards, too. Try to see the humor in the absurdity of the whole process.
Ultimately, when we cultivate this undiscriminating acceptance in ourselves, it lends itself effortlessly to compassion for others. When we allow ourselves the space we need to air out all of the parts of ourselves we loathe, instead of repressing and covering up, it naturally follows that we become more empathetic individuals. Kindness to ourselves breeds kindness for others.
So if you're an activist or a volunteer or a "do-gooder," it's not that I'm dismissing you as an egotist. I don't think we should all become hermits and do nothing but meditate and become enlightened before real change can take place. Miracles happen all the time, and altruism has achieved some great things in the world. But let's not forget ourselves, fragile and delicate and absurd as we are, along the way.
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
-J-dawg
Let's take a closer look at compassion. Many people, when asked why they volunteer or protest or whatever else, will say that it makes them feel that they are doing good. It makes them feel good. About themselves. Whether it is liberal guilt or compassion for compassion's sake that serves as motivation, these actions are sometimes nothing more than self-absorption cloaked in the cherished idea of "selflessness." And the more defensive you get about that assertion, brash as it may seem, the more likely it is that it hits home.
But what's so wrong with being self-centered?
Okay, so arrogance and self-absorption in others irritate us. But the kind of self-centeredness, more rightfully called self-orientedness, I'm talking about actually intimately relates to the virtue of compassion. Traditionally, ego and compassion are like the two relatives who can't be in a room together without arguing. They just don't get along. But in order to be compassionate, we have to pay attention to ourselves first.
Meditation opens up the portal of self-awareness; when perfected, the technique draws the curtain on all our ego's machinations and brings them into full light. We become acutely aware of moods and their influence instead of being ruled by them. Instead of hitching onto a thought like a runaway on a train, we take a step back and simply observe it passing like a cloud in the sky. The goal of meditation is observation without judgment, and because we get to know ourselves better in the process, it is the first step to becoming compassionate.
I remember when I first started meditating, what I found disturbed and shocked me. Did I really talk to myself that way?! It was almost comical, witnessing how I would berate myself for petty things like spending money on shoes instead of saving it, for eating that extra slice of pizza, for smoking a whole pack of cigarettes in a day. Life is full of "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts," and humans are pretty good at generating a whole lot of useless guilt over not adhering to their own personal code of "goodness." Whether it's our diets, our relationships, or our productivity, we just don't do enough, we don't measure up. We are not good enough. Everyone has felt self-loathing at some point in their lives, and for many of us, it eats away at us in subtle ways. Why did I just snap at my mom? I can't believe I'm feeling jealous over that girl that works with my boyfriend. I should strive to be better. This familiar dialogue runs unsolicited through our heads, taking on different disguises, but underneath lies the same demon: self-criticism.
And that demon is an ugly one. The cliche that you can't love others before you love yourself is the truth. We all have skeletons in our closets, and unless we air them out, they're going to rot away and make everything stink. But once you look them in the face, you realize they're not so hideous after all. When we talk about our jealousy, our indulgence of choice, or our guilt with others, that commiseration brings love. We don't think of our friends as terrible people for occasionally screwing up, so shouldn't we go a little easier on ourselves? I should add in as a caveat here to not let self-criticism become just another demon to exorcise: it's okay that you feel it. When we meditate, we don't seek to detach from or escape emotions, as some common misinterpretations lead you to believe. Feel its wrath completely and fully, and let yourself know it's okay to make mistakes. And it's okay to torture yourself for it afterwards, too. Try to see the humor in the absurdity of the whole process.
Ultimately, when we cultivate this undiscriminating acceptance in ourselves, it lends itself effortlessly to compassion for others. When we allow ourselves the space we need to air out all of the parts of ourselves we loathe, instead of repressing and covering up, it naturally follows that we become more empathetic individuals. Kindness to ourselves breeds kindness for others.
So if you're an activist or a volunteer or a "do-gooder," it's not that I'm dismissing you as an egotist. I don't think we should all become hermits and do nothing but meditate and become enlightened before real change can take place. Miracles happen all the time, and altruism has achieved some great things in the world. But let's not forget ourselves, fragile and delicate and absurd as we are, along the way.
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
-J-dawg
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Gift for Augustine (a poem)
"There's a demon inside of me," she said,
"It creeps when I'm not looking, and
it's slippery as a bat in flight when
I am."
A thousand miles away, a fire burns somewhere.
A thousand miles in, it starts to lick
and, acid-like, eat you.
But that's not the worst of it.
No, the worst comes later,
in through your ears, like tuning into a radio,
and sits
and waits
for you to fall asleep, so it can
sink talons into your dreams
and wait
for you to forget, as an animal on its prey,
but something reminds you
a circling ferris wheel--the way skin feels
that every
goddamn
thing
is changing.
O death, come slowly, but come every single day to remind us
that we live in eternal recurrence,
that everything that happens
has already happened:
...or is that just another one of my stories?
In any case, a duck on the side of the road,
a lady in waiting
our fragile egos
remind us to sit on balconies and feel
near your closeness,
and let us not forget:
the separateness of things.
So, to answer you, Conor,
the counterweight to all this death is simply this
I can't stop this.
And not to get too heavy
that's just what it feels like
to behold all the light.
"It creeps when I'm not looking, and
it's slippery as a bat in flight when
I am."
A thousand miles away, a fire burns somewhere.
A thousand miles in, it starts to lick
and, acid-like, eat you.
But that's not the worst of it.
No, the worst comes later,
in through your ears, like tuning into a radio,
and sits
and waits
for you to fall asleep, so it can
sink talons into your dreams
and wait
for you to forget, as an animal on its prey,
but something reminds you
a circling ferris wheel--the way skin feels
that every
goddamn
thing
is changing.
O death, come slowly, but come every single day to remind us
that we live in eternal recurrence,
that everything that happens
has already happened:
...or is that just another one of my stories?
In any case, a duck on the side of the road,
a lady in waiting
our fragile egos
remind us to sit on balconies and feel
near your closeness,
and let us not forget:
the separateness of things.
So, to answer you, Conor,
the counterweight to all this death is simply this
I can't stop this.
And not to get too heavy
that's just what it feels like
to behold all the light.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Dropping the G-Bomb
We all know the cardinal sins of mentioning religion or politics in conversation, but dropping the G-bomb is just as uncomfortable for us progressive, self-aware types. What is it about this particular word that makes us flinch? No one likes to be told by their well-intentioned churchgoing neighbor that God will take care of their lack of health insurance, we get insulted when people want to pray for us, and "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance is troublesome enough to be dragged into court. Okay, so we're angry about religion in general, and with good reason. We're angry at religion for making people commit atrocities in its name, for making our leaders think they have the right to legislate bigotry because of some old book, for dulling people's critical faculties by teaching them not to question their blindly held beliefs. In a personal sense, we're angry at religion for making us feel guilty and wrong about our corporal desires, our greed, our "sinfulness."
So it's no surprise that when someone drops a G-bomb, things just get tense. The conversation was going really well until your classmate threw in that "God has blessed me with so much" at the end. Suddenly your stomach drops and your head starts spinning with assumptions and judgments about this person, hoping they're not a Christian. But why does such discomfort arise when communicating over the albeit difficult, but ever-important issues of faith and spirituality? I won't sugarcoat it: in a lot of ways, religion sucks. Now let's move on and have an honest conversation.
Recently I was involved in a late night, rum-fueled discussion about God in a hostel I was staying at. The conversation got heated when a British traveler had asked me if I believed in God. I answered yes. To make a long story short, my companion kept insisting that I was religious but didn't know it, and that I "just hadn't made the step yet" of denying the existence of God. Aside from the fact that these seemed to be more ad hominem accusations than valid points of debate, his criticisms nonetheless revealed something interesting about the "God" signifier: when we hear "God," we immediately and automatically make the association with religion, specifically Christianity. Nevermind that the God I believe in, what I meant when I chose the word "God" to convey my beliefs, has nothing to do with Christianity or any other organized religion. But the word itself is so helplessly overburdened by raving televangelists and shamefaced priests that it becomes very, very difficult to have a conversation with somebody about spirituality without bringing forth a tidal wave of these unpleasant images and associations. My friend's second assumption, that I hadn't yet made the step of denying God, revealed more than just his cockiness (love you, David!): that our culture reveres something of the atheistic spirit, as if it's (maybe not so) ironically a higher plane to which one ascends. Once you have reckoned with the certainty of death and rejected blind faith in favor of reason, you are supposedly stronger and more able than all those feeble-minded sheep. We placed denial of faith up on a pedestal the same way Christians would a cross. What we have overlooked is that both believers and skeptics, the chosen ones and the fallen, Christians and atheists, all share in common the belief in a totalizing reality. It doesn't matter if that all-powerful idol is a God or cold logic in terms of psychology.
Still, despite these similarities, the war wages on. Self-proclaimed atheists are hopelessly disillusioned with religion, and by association, with God. Christians bemoan the decay of religion in America and atheist groups angrily condemn city nativity displays. Parents and school boards squabble over the teaching of creationism or evolution in schools. Easy notions of duality haunt us, tempting us to seek out the differences amongst ourselves rather than what unites. It's us against them, a historically useless but ever-present mentality that tears us apart. We have divided ourselves over race, ethnicity, sexuality, gender, and too much more. Let us not draw one more line that severs our connection as a unified human race over what matters most.
The truth of it is, even if modern culture has rejected the notion of an all knowing, all seeing deity that sends hurricanes to sinful parts of the world and ordains the outcome of Survivor, we have not denied spirituality altogether. Most
of us are still enchanted and mystified by our existence. We feel at peace next to a gently babbling stream, we marvel at our insignificance when we gaze up at the night sky. We've had strange coincidences, fatalistic encounters, and narrowly avoided disasters. We've gone to a concert and felt enraptured, whisked away to a magical place, by music. We've declared our love meant to be. "I don't believe in God, but I'm spiritual," says our generation.
Even though "God is dead," beliefs never will be. It doesn't matter if you pray at church or if you worship at the altar of science; religious folk and atheists alike both bow their heads to an overarching reality, a greater whole, whether they call it God or evolution makes little difference at the core. And while I know it's hard to suppress your anger when speaking to someone who opposes gay marriage, but don't adopt the same tactics as your enemy, shutting them out because of identity politics. Too often have I heard people dismiss others' opinions simply because that person is a Christian. Does it matter if the object of your hatred is a Christian or a homosexual? Both sides are guilty of prejudice, of harboring rage and aggression against the other. These destructive mindsets are of no use to us anymore, so what now?
When having a conversation about spirituality, which frequently erupts into arguments because we hold our beliefs so close to our hearts, let us not fall into the familiar divisive mentality that invites dismissals and hasty judgments. When a friend says "God" and you prefer to say "the universe" to invoke a higher power, don't be so quick to assume that they must mean a bearded man in the sky. Existential dilemmas are the most difficult we face; let us treat them with the delicacy and understanding they deserve. Using language to describe the ineffable can too easily result in confusion, so listen closely and think before speaking. Choose your words carefully. When you hear "God," a better question to ask than why he or she believes in what you assume this word signifies is "what do you mean when you say that?" Such questions can invite fascinating discussion with the unlikeliest of companions. I have had some of the most enriching, perspective-shifting conversations with die-hard Christians because I have made the conscious decision to simply to listen, and look for similarities rather than differences. You'll be surprised at what you find. Instead of scoffing at that neighbor when they drop a G-bomb, notice the compassion that underlies their utterance. What if they had said, "don't worry, things work out for the best?" Maybe that was all they meant in the first place.
Maybe "God" is too tainted a word for those in-betweeners who call themselves spiritual to use. Let us remind ourselves that names are no more than a personal preference: divinity, the universe, the Light, the Source, whatever you prefer, it does not matter. What matters is what lies behind the language. Maybe all of those words turn you off, maybe anything remotely involving the supernatural is anathema to you. Still, I invite you to participate in these exchanges and think hard about your own significations for and experience with the magic of existence. I hope we can all at least agree on that much.
In this blog, I want to explore and share that magic in the medium of language, difficult as though it may be at times. I hope to open up what others have shut down, inspire people in places they have been defeated. I want to wake you up out of your slumber and show you my sublime, and I hope you can see a little of yourself in it.
Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.
- Psalms 119:105
So it's no surprise that when someone drops a G-bomb, things just get tense. The conversation was going really well until your classmate threw in that "God has blessed me with so much" at the end. Suddenly your stomach drops and your head starts spinning with assumptions and judgments about this person, hoping they're not a Christian. But why does such discomfort arise when communicating over the albeit difficult, but ever-important issues of faith and spirituality? I won't sugarcoat it: in a lot of ways, religion sucks. Now let's move on and have an honest conversation.
Recently I was involved in a late night, rum-fueled discussion about God in a hostel I was staying at. The conversation got heated when a British traveler had asked me if I believed in God. I answered yes. To make a long story short, my companion kept insisting that I was religious but didn't know it, and that I "just hadn't made the step yet" of denying the existence of God. Aside from the fact that these seemed to be more ad hominem accusations than valid points of debate, his criticisms nonetheless revealed something interesting about the "God" signifier: when we hear "God," we immediately and automatically make the association with religion, specifically Christianity. Nevermind that the God I believe in, what I meant when I chose the word "God" to convey my beliefs, has nothing to do with Christianity or any other organized religion. But the word itself is so helplessly overburdened by raving televangelists and shamefaced priests that it becomes very, very difficult to have a conversation with somebody about spirituality without bringing forth a tidal wave of these unpleasant images and associations. My friend's second assumption, that I hadn't yet made the step of denying God, revealed more than just his cockiness (love you, David!): that our culture reveres something of the atheistic spirit, as if it's (maybe not so) ironically a higher plane to which one ascends. Once you have reckoned with the certainty of death and rejected blind faith in favor of reason, you are supposedly stronger and more able than all those feeble-minded sheep. We placed denial of faith up on a pedestal the same way Christians would a cross. What we have overlooked is that both believers and skeptics, the chosen ones and the fallen, Christians and atheists, all share in common the belief in a totalizing reality. It doesn't matter if that all-powerful idol is a God or cold logic in terms of psychology.
Still, despite these similarities, the war wages on. Self-proclaimed atheists are hopelessly disillusioned with religion, and by association, with God. Christians bemoan the decay of religion in America and atheist groups angrily condemn city nativity displays. Parents and school boards squabble over the teaching of creationism or evolution in schools. Easy notions of duality haunt us, tempting us to seek out the differences amongst ourselves rather than what unites. It's us against them, a historically useless but ever-present mentality that tears us apart. We have divided ourselves over race, ethnicity, sexuality, gender, and too much more. Let us not draw one more line that severs our connection as a unified human race over what matters most.
The truth of it is, even if modern culture has rejected the notion of an all knowing, all seeing deity that sends hurricanes to sinful parts of the world and ordains the outcome of Survivor, we have not denied spirituality altogether. Most
of us are still enchanted and mystified by our existence. We feel at peace next to a gently babbling stream, we marvel at our insignificance when we gaze up at the night sky. We've had strange coincidences, fatalistic encounters, and narrowly avoided disasters. We've gone to a concert and felt enraptured, whisked away to a magical place, by music. We've declared our love meant to be. "I don't believe in God, but I'm spiritual," says our generation.
Even though "God is dead," beliefs never will be. It doesn't matter if you pray at church or if you worship at the altar of science; religious folk and atheists alike both bow their heads to an overarching reality, a greater whole, whether they call it God or evolution makes little difference at the core. And while I know it's hard to suppress your anger when speaking to someone who opposes gay marriage, but don't adopt the same tactics as your enemy, shutting them out because of identity politics. Too often have I heard people dismiss others' opinions simply because that person is a Christian. Does it matter if the object of your hatred is a Christian or a homosexual? Both sides are guilty of prejudice, of harboring rage and aggression against the other. These destructive mindsets are of no use to us anymore, so what now?
When having a conversation about spirituality, which frequently erupts into arguments because we hold our beliefs so close to our hearts, let us not fall into the familiar divisive mentality that invites dismissals and hasty judgments. When a friend says "God" and you prefer to say "the universe" to invoke a higher power, don't be so quick to assume that they must mean a bearded man in the sky. Existential dilemmas are the most difficult we face; let us treat them with the delicacy and understanding they deserve. Using language to describe the ineffable can too easily result in confusion, so listen closely and think before speaking. Choose your words carefully. When you hear "God," a better question to ask than why he or she believes in what you assume this word signifies is "what do you mean when you say that?" Such questions can invite fascinating discussion with the unlikeliest of companions. I have had some of the most enriching, perspective-shifting conversations with die-hard Christians because I have made the conscious decision to simply to listen, and look for similarities rather than differences. You'll be surprised at what you find. Instead of scoffing at that neighbor when they drop a G-bomb, notice the compassion that underlies their utterance. What if they had said, "don't worry, things work out for the best?" Maybe that was all they meant in the first place.
Maybe "God" is too tainted a word for those in-betweeners who call themselves spiritual to use. Let us remind ourselves that names are no more than a personal preference: divinity, the universe, the Light, the Source, whatever you prefer, it does not matter. What matters is what lies behind the language. Maybe all of those words turn you off, maybe anything remotely involving the supernatural is anathema to you. Still, I invite you to participate in these exchanges and think hard about your own significations for and experience with the magic of existence. I hope we can all at least agree on that much.
In this blog, I want to explore and share that magic in the medium of language, difficult as though it may be at times. I hope to open up what others have shut down, inspire people in places they have been defeated. I want to wake you up out of your slumber and show you my sublime, and I hope you can see a little of yourself in it.
Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.
- Psalms 119:105
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
