A Spiritual Rut

I use that word 'rut' knowing very well that it has two different meanings. A rut is primarily "A sunken track or groove made by the passage of vehicles". It could also be a "fixed, usually boring routine". If I were to consider the primary definition metaphorically, both definitions would undoubtedly express my point accurately - I am in a spiritual rut.

If you found my slightly clinical introduction off-putting then you perhaps are already beginning to grasp the issue. I've always been one to take pride in my spirituality, private pride, a pride that is not worn on one's sleeve (and to which this very sentence could propose a contradiction). In an earlier post I had taken the Latin meaning to the word "religion", i.e. "re-connection", to be most inspiring. That is what my "faith" is in - the ability to re-connect. I continue with my denotative obsession to highlight that if one is to "re-connect" to some Thing or some One, then most certainly an earlier connection had at some point been forged. This point, I believe, was when my soul was Created - the day God breathed his own being into me and into all of humanity so that we (the Si Morgh) become a reflection of Him (the Simorgh). Our ability to re-connect to God therefore is inherent to our being - "religion" cannot be learned.

Of course the modern connotations of the word "religion" refer really to "traditions": institutions and practices, orders, ecclesiastic systems, and other forms of social organization. Although fundamentally incorrect, this understanding is not to be discounted. Your inherent ability to reconnect to your Creator, throughout your upbringing (assuming that a particular tradition formed any part of that), has been expressed through these institutions and traditions. Therefore, one finds it most natural to reconnect to his or her Creator by methods learned in youth.

So, I heard myself say one day, which is it? Where should one’s focus be? On the holy books or the what lies between the their lines of wisdom? Emphasis must be put on the importance of “religion” in the face of "tradition". A tradition (christian, islamic, jewish, buddhist etc) must be used and considered only as a tool - your vehicle, your compass, your ISP even. If you concede to the fact that your religion is your tool, way or path then you will agree that it is improbable that only one tool or path exists – just like it is improbable that only one road leads to Rome. Therefore, other traditions that are equally valid undoubtedly exist. The knee-jerk reaction to that statement for me was- what about polytheists? Idol worshipers? If they are just as valid why is it that God has sent messengers to this Earth to preach of different traditions? Well, it would be immensely self-indulgent if I were to answer that on behalf of God- but my honest deduction is that such messengers were sent to teach us values and provide us with even more tools to reach the one Truth, God. I do not recall any prophet that has attacked another tradition and claimed superiority in his own teachings and ways.

When Prophet Mohamed sought to dissuade the "idol worshippers" by breaking their stone-carved gods his point was not to attack their traditions and values but rather (and admittedly my Sufi esotericism is in play here) to make the same point that I have earlier, in that tradition is a tool and not an end to be sought. The idols had become God to his fellow tribesmen and any attempt at spirituality had been set aside, the finite nature of the worshipped blocking spiritual creativity and going against human nature. The tribespeople brought only requests for worldly and material needs and lost the essence of their reconnection. In my interpretation of the Prophet's intentions, perhaps by destroying the idols he invited those around him to look deeper into the source of their traditions and values, not to attack them. Belonging to a tradition where objects are assigned holy status does not contradict a genuine attempt at reconnection so long as such objects are of symbollic importance and are consequently used as tools to inspire you. Christianity reveres crosses, Muslims circle what is otherwise a nondescript rock.

I’m not writing a thesis, I’m simply trying to set the scene within which my spiritual rut has developed. In reference to the definitions of “rut” I set out earlier – at this point in my life, after having matured considerably through embracing Sufism and therefore both my intellect and intuition, I very much feel like I am standing in the sunken tracks of my soul’s triumph, now somewhat lost and intangible. The zest has unfortunately waned, and though its convenient for me to blame life’s many distractions, the reality is that I’ve lost steam. I need a muse, or something to bring back inspiration. My praying has become less and less frequent. I attend mass and though I feel my soul healing as I sit and soak up the energy around me, I don’t stay long enough to re-enforce the connection between my soul and its Source.

At this point my theory is that if I branch out further beyond mosques and churches to experience how people of other traditions find true religion I may find what I’m looking for. Is that likely? Maybe. I certainly have the interest. My doubt is in whether I will keep momentum.

Perhaps my private life is a consideration. Perhaps I am in no spiritual rut at all- that my love for my partner has occupied me emotionally and brought about the reconnection in an altogether different manner.

I realize this might not make much sense. If I had an answer this would probably be much easier to express. See the tribesmen were lucky to have someone come and shatter their routine, force their minds to think and consult their hearts. Most of us are not quite so lucky.

Sunday - Nikonn

Oscar Wilde = The Picture of Dorian Gray

"People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible."

September 18, 2007

London 13deg Celsius

The walk from the Central Bank to Moorgate was usually short but on this chilly day it seemed longer and almost pointless. The sun was out, which was more than he could ask for, and it bleached the buildings with its waning might. Autumn.

He checked his phone. No messages. He turned it off, it was almost out of batteries anyway. At university he sat himself down at a computer. After checking most of his mail and network accounts he decided to get up and find another computer, maybe in quieter surroundings. Corporation tax, that's what he had to work on.

Skimming through seemingly countless pages at varying speed, his eyes would occasionally blur, his pen would stop tapping. His brain wasn't slowing down, it was speeding up. Images flashed. Composites, mosaics. Images that came in different colour masks. Taking a deep breath, things began to slow again and the words on the page came into focus.

He changed his computer another 3 times at least. The air conditioning was too strong by the 1st. The Internet too slow on the 3rd.

At some point he realized it was time for class. Company law. Perhaps too simple to attend but how else would he kill time on this endless day. At his desk he stared right through his tutor and classmates. Nobody noticed of course - it was not like him to wear any sort of emotion on his sleeve. But as the day progressed his eyes would blur more and more frequently. Under the stress his memory divulged things it had kept private for 6 years. Their rediscovery did not aid his demeanor.

Later in bed that night, he turned on his phone. No messages. In a way, he was sort of glad the pact of silence was still honored. He couldn't help but wonder if things would have been any better today if things were discussed more openly, if (heaven forbid) feelings were shared. No, he thought, I'd rather not.

As he set his phone next to him in the dark room the light from its screen shone on the ceiling. As it went dark, his eyes saw the images clearer than ever. Sitting at his bed that afternoon, checking email. The sound of irregular breathing the next room. The way the sun pierced the afternoon air and the window screen, making its way into a room full of sadness and the anticipation of death. Tears, recital of scriptures. Yellow, yellow skin. Breathing as if an invisible hand had a firm grasp on her heart, pulling it out of her chest with all its might. The door-bell ringing incessantly as the news spread. White, red, green, blue masks covered the images.

Then the next day. Two, maybe three ladies softly touching him, nudging him towards the closed door to go say his goodbyes. Tears welling up in his eyes he enters the cold, clean smelling room. The room was flooded. He felt the water seep into his shoes as he walked towards the smiling corpse. The tears blurred his eyes, so that as he kissed her forehead, all he could see was a jumbled array of colours and light.

His insides were raw, his whispering in her ear quiet.

...labyrinthine wisdom

"In His absence, His place is truly re-affirmed in one's heart."

(the comeback post)

...at the dinner table...

JS: They were not concentration camps. Jeez, you're making us sound like Nazis...

RM: They most certainly were. Every Japanese American was interned during that period. It's not far fetched to say that Hitler was inspired by the US government.

JS: That's ridiculous, there was no torture...

Me: Not on the Nazi scale obviously but it was undoubtedly a crime against humanity...

RM: I wrote my dissertation on it. Did you know that non-US citizens are not protected under the US constitution? So (unlike, for example, Britain) there is no universal human rights code being followed and for the sake of national security the government is able to do a lot more than it should.

JS: As they should be able to.

Me: JS, don't forget that your family were Italian farmers who emigrated to American not too long ago. Do you think you would be happy if your race was suddenly suspect because of a few idiots? Just as the Arabs now are because of those 9/11 morons? I mean come on...

JS: You be quiet after 9/11 I wanted to pick up a gun and SHOOT EVERY FUCKING ARAB IN SIGHT.

Me: And this is where I excuse myself from the table

JS: And you should...

Me: The racism ingrained in you is disgusting and I'm frankly sick of it. To belittle the suffering of the Japanese Americans then to insult my own heritage - you have some nerve...

-----2 hours later------

SI, AT, TT and I arrive at DTPM. I'm still angry but in my party mood I feel defiant. The four of us had already consumed a significant amount of alcohol and it was now only 12.30 am. The vodka started flowing, the music getting harder and the crowd getting more and more merry. Six hours later I finally decided to get into the cab and go home.

I knew I was supposed to go to JS's place and spend the night (or the morning rather) with him. Since we both lived on the Chelsea Embankment I had time to make up my mind. As the cab wizzed through the quiet streets of London on an August bank holiday, I did not feel the usual yearning I had after nights like this to be next to him. I felt more independant.

"Which part of Chelsea Embankment sir?"

I looked out the window. To the distance I could see Jim's building sitting beautifuly on the river by the Chelsea Bridge. At this time of day and in my state of being it looked immaculate, flawless. It was very much like the way he imagined and pressured our relationship to be. Clean, lofty, right. My mind whirled back to the events of the evening. The inebriation, the random horniness, both fun and excessive.

"We'll just continue to Edith Grove please, past the Battersea Bridge." JS imagined us one way, but the truth was altogether different. Snapping out of this relationship is hard and over time I've lost a bit of self-respect for myself in my inability to take assertive action. I realized though that in a way, by distancing myself from him, I was doing what other people wanted me to do rather than what I wanted to do. Surely a part of me sees this relationship as wrong - but not enough of me. And until I am entirely convinced on an emotional level that this is wrong, very little is likely to take place.

I got home and rolled into bed after a quick shower. I lay there for a moment trying to think. There is no reason why I shouldn't be selfish. I want JS in my life, though he can be a rude, asexual bigot. I also want to live my youth, experience what I want to experience and meet who I want to meet. In the past guilt held me back more than anything but now I'm seeing this as a ridiculous excuse. JS started dating me when I was 19 an he should expect the commitment of a teenager not of a 46 year old.

I rolled over and turned off my cell phone.

Anthem by Filo and Peri (awesome summer track 1)

Mid-Summer Night's Ghost

Since my arrival in Cairo only 3 weeks ago, and with three weeks left of this trip, a familiar sense of exhaustion and nostalgia settles in. Exhaustion at the routine, the people that have managed to stay almost exactly the same since high school- frequenting the same bars and eating at the same restaurants. Nostalgia at the beautiful summers that I have had here, with carefree days where the realm of possibility and spontaneity extended even beyond the breadth of the persistently blue sky. Every year I try and recreate the atmosphere, to 'let loose' and get a taste of anything that I had missed to the 'n'th degree. And usually I succeed.

The same song goes through my head:
"I can see you,
your brown skin shining in the sun...
You've got your head thrown back and your
sunglasses on..."

I spend hours on the beach, sometimes dancing in the water. I lose all sense of time and its relevance. I turn on my iPod and drive into sunsets almost on a daily basis- be it a cityscape or otherwise that lines the horizon.

But I'm also overwhelmed by a feeling that my intellect refuses to acknowledge. I miss you. I still remember every detail of that summer we had together. I remember you, my first love, my summer love. I remember the torment that lasted a year before luck struck and you returned to me. I remember the passion and lust that engulfed us and made both 'time' and 'place' intangible, alien concepts. Most of all I remember your hands, how they felt and how they fit in mine.

It's natural to deny this, after all I had rejected it all after one stressful weekend. Youth can be a terrible, improvident agent. Still I remain unsure if a mistake had been made. There is no doubt that I yearn for that physical intimacy, but on an emotional inter-personal level was there a match? There may have been. There must have been, but my ineptitude in self-expression has placed resentment amidst the whole scenario. I easily become a victim of my own failures, but I shudder at the memory of how much pain I caused you.