Some of my readers know that I spent several years as a Mormon before resigning from the church. After I left Mormonism I reverted back to a sort of incidental atheism, but I have reached a point in my life where I have a nameless longing to feel something... not necessarily supernatural, but cosmic, perhaps. Maybe I just wish I had some sense that the universe is alive, and fundamentally benevolent. So I've been exploring different concepts, practices, doorways...
...but I've felt completely blocked.
Religion carries a trauma association for me now. I lost so much of myself, chopped off significant parts of myself to fit in that box. I did this willingly -- I have only myself to blame -- because I thought it was right. I became a really awful person under that pressure, and in the end I was wrong. I've needed years to heal from that time in my life (mostly the ways I hurt myself and others), and the thought of opening up again is very frightening to me.
Up to this point, I haven't gone out of my way to find another religion. I have dabbled in various modalities, but nothing quite fits. I've studied many other spiritual traditions, and I find grains of truth in them all, but none of them seem like something I could fully embrace as part of my identity.
For example, discovering the Eightfold Path of Buddhism was like coming home to something I'd always known, so I joined a Buddhist sangha in Salt Lake City. But I just couldn't make it work, and eventually I had to let it go. I still appreciate the philosophy of Buddhism and much of it does inform my life, but it doesn't define who I am.
This is a fairly universal experience for me. After arriving in California, I tried out the Quakers. I found a very small group (usually 4-5 people) who gathered on Sundays, and joined with them several times. A friend of mine says the Quakers are “dogmatic about their lack of dogma and ritualistic about their lack of ritual,” both of which suited me just fine. Sitting in silence in the unprogrammed meeting gave me an hour of pure quiet every week in which to meditate and connect with a compassionate community.
For example, discovering the Eightfold Path of Buddhism was like coming home to something I'd always known, so I joined a Buddhist sangha in Salt Lake City. But I just couldn't make it work, and eventually I had to let it go. I still appreciate the philosophy of Buddhism and much of it does inform my life, but it doesn't define who I am.
This is a fairly universal experience for me. After arriving in California, I tried out the Quakers. I found a very small group (usually 4-5 people) who gathered on Sundays, and joined with them several times. A friend of mine says the Quakers are “dogmatic about their lack of dogma and ritualistic about their lack of ritual,” both of which suited me just fine. Sitting in silence in the unprogrammed meeting gave me an hour of pure quiet every week in which to meditate and connect with a compassionate community.
I was very grateful to see egalitarian values, beliefs in non-violence, equal rights, social justice, and care for the Earth, and imperatives to honor lived experience and trust in even uncomfortable truths affirmed in a religious setting. And yet, gradually I fell away from the Quakers. As much as I loved the community, it was just too small. The other folks had been lifelong members and usually came from families with a strong Quaker heritage. I haven't participated for many months, though I do feel I'd return if the group were larger and offered a beginners' discussion class.
But I seriously doubt I would ever officially join; despite how much I admire and respect the Quaker tradition, I'm unwilling to open to one path if it means that all others are closed to me.
When I made the decision to stop attending Quaker Meeting, I also stopped looking for anything else. For the most part I stopped reading books or having conversations that were specifically spiritual in nature. I stopped reading Quaker-Buddhist memoirs and feminist Mormon blogs. I stopped feeling people out about their churches and spiritual experiences. I just decided, consciously or not, to let it go, to settle into the identity of a shruggingly non-religious person.
And yet, here I am, wondering.
Jeremy was on a different spiritual path even before we left the Mormon church. One day, about a year after we left the church, Jeremy expressed concern that I was becoming a materialist. I was taken aback by this comment. I'd never thought of myself as a materialist, but I'd also never thought of materialism as a bad thing (or a good thing).
I can't remember the rest of the conversation, but I think I did say, indignantly, that I wasn't a materialist -- just skeptical.
I've pondered this conversation several times over the years, asking myself why I bristled at being thought a materialist. I've tried to think objectively about why materialism would be considered a negative philosophy. Eventually I decided that there can be a more positive, even soulful approach to materialism that may be worthy of consideration as a serious philosophy.
For example, whereas a spiritual view of the world might see the Earth as a manifestation or an illusion or a purgatory or a test, a materialistic view of the world would see the Earth as something that truly exists, independent of us or our needs or desires. People are real, animals are real, the land is real, bodies are real, relationships are real, oppression is real, pain is real, death is real.
There are no excuses, and no second chances. Consequences are real, too.
To a certain extent, materialism honors life at face value. Under this rubric I would embrace the title of “materialist.” This world is real. It counts for something. Maybe it's not the only world, but it's our world, and we belong to it.
For example, whereas a spiritual view of the world might see the Earth as a manifestation or an illusion or a purgatory or a test, a materialistic view of the world would see the Earth as something that truly exists, independent of us or our needs or desires. People are real, animals are real, the land is real, bodies are real, relationships are real, oppression is real, pain is real, death is real.
There are no excuses, and no second chances. Consequences are real, too.
To a certain extent, materialism honors life at face value. Under this rubric I would embrace the title of “materialist.” This world is real. It counts for something. Maybe it's not the only world, but it's our world, and we belong to it.
If there's anything I believe in, it's this.
I can see the Milky Way out here, have I mentioned that? I've only seen it a handful of times in my life, always way out in the desert, hundreds of miles from a major city. Now, our bed sits under a tall window where I can just cock my head back and there it is, right within my sight, night after night. I keep those windows very clean, and staring up at that fog of stars is the nearest thing I've ever experienced to a spiritual burning in the bosom.
A few weeks ago, I woke up very early and watched the stars from my cozy warm spot under the window. Orion was directly within my sight, and as I watched for shooting stars (which are, apparently, nearly constantly happening), I suddenly saw a distinct pulse of light, there and then gone within an instant, just below Orion's belt. I wasn't sure it had really happened, but I kept my eyes on that region of the sky and sure enough, it happened again. When the light came a third time, I nudged Jeremy and he started watching with me. We saw the pulse several more times before the sun came up.
During this time we had a silly conversation, debating what the pulse might be. Spy satellites transmitting images of grow-ops to local DEA agents? An ancient civilization blowing itself up? I watched for the light the next morning, but I never saw it again. I'll never know what it was. Maybe it was something so mundane as a satellite, or something so great as a million-year-old catastrophe. It doesn't really matter. All I have is what I had in that moment: wonder.
A few weeks ago, I woke up very early and watched the stars from my cozy warm spot under the window. Orion was directly within my sight, and as I watched for shooting stars (which are, apparently, nearly constantly happening), I suddenly saw a distinct pulse of light, there and then gone within an instant, just below Orion's belt. I wasn't sure it had really happened, but I kept my eyes on that region of the sky and sure enough, it happened again. When the light came a third time, I nudged Jeremy and he started watching with me. We saw the pulse several more times before the sun came up.
During this time we had a silly conversation, debating what the pulse might be. Spy satellites transmitting images of grow-ops to local DEA agents? An ancient civilization blowing itself up? I watched for the light the next morning, but I never saw it again. I'll never know what it was. Maybe it was something so mundane as a satellite, or something so great as a million-year-old catastrophe. It doesn't really matter. All I have is what I had in that moment: wonder.
A few days ago, an anthroposophical thinker named Daniel Bittleston gave a short talk at our school. He spoke mostly of the contributions Waldorf schools are making to the world, but he said one thing, near the end, that really stuck with me: keep a window open.
Believe what you want, but leave a small crack for different ideas. Leave a place for wonder.
 |
| Tuna suggests I relax and do some yoga. Okay, Tuna. |
(If you would like to converse with me on this topic, as always you are welcome to email me.)
