The Othered Woman

According to Simone de Beauvoir, as well as other continental philosophers, the Other is a reified being, a construct set up by a subject through which that subject defines himself (or herself, as the case may be, but in this particular instance, as well as in Simone de Beauvoir’s writings, the subject is necessarily male). The Other encapsulates all the aspects of a human which the subject simultaneously fears and reveres. The Other is an objectified projection of qualities the subject does not, cannot, will not conceive of in himself.  The Other is not a true self-actualizing being, but an opposite.

Historically, religious and cultural conceptions of the woman have set her up as Other in relation to men, who were considered to be truly and completely human.

The practice of vilifying women, as well as so-called female attributes, as Other, is generally condemned within Unitarian Universalism. Indeed,  we seem to be moving away from shunning the female body in disgust, towards venerating it for its supposed mystical and transcendent qualities. I wonder, however, how the reverance of the female I have noted during some services, in particular on the part of men, might not be just as objectifying and as Othering as the vilification of the past.

Statements such as “Women are closer to nature than men due to their menstrual cycles” upset me.  These words are distinctly more harmful than those speaking them might understand. They are harmful because they assume one single, fundamental, biologically determined framework for women’s nature. While it might be spoken in tones of admiration and longing, one cannot forget that this very line has been used for millenia to impose control over women’s bodies. This statement is not empirically verifiable; furthermore, it is directly at odds with many a woman’s experience. Plenty of women do feel distinctly alienated from their physical selves, in particular while menstruating.

The tangible relation of a woman to an external temporal flux is just one means through which the female body is objectified for the purpose of spiritual veneration. The capacity to become pregnant and carry children is similarly Othered: a mystery beyond simple biological imperative. To be sure, it is compelling to consider the processes of carrying and birthing a child to be miraculous on one level: it is with wonder that we observe the creation of someone from a seeming nothing. However, it is a mistake to invoke any kind of supernaturalism to enjoy this wonder at the generation of new life. Indeed, part of the problem of the reification of women is the insistence upon imbuing her biological functions with transcendent power.

This perspective, to a certain extent, inadvertently removes a woman’s agency. She is transformed from an individual being, with a unique perspective, to a generalized, constructed Female with a universalized, easily definable experience. This change, imposed from the outside, veers dangerously towards the negation of the fundamental humanity of all women.

It is crucial to remember that in spite of biological sex, in spite even of gender identification, individual mileage may ultimately vary. Experiences reinforcing, as well as refuting, essentialist statements with regards to female perspective are just that – experiential. As such, it differs wildly from person to person. Men and women, as groups, are probably equally attached overall to physical processes; within this division, some individuals will find more attachement than others. To claim otherwise imposes a significant yet arbitrary limitatiion upon the humanity, the individual experience, the free will, and the physical autonomy on the entire human species.

Young and Restless

A few weeks ago, a survey circulated through my congregation, seeking answers about people’s experiences in the church, whether their needs were being met, and what they thought of service and program structure. I will admit that I went off on a bit of a tear, punctuating my answers with angry point form. I was rather surprised at my sudden display of wrathful critique.

It was a few worried days later that I came to an understanding of the situation fueling my frustration.

I realized I have been feeling quite alienated within my own congregation. I am the only person in my twenties who attends my church. My congregation is comprised mainly of older adults, and of families with children, and is tilted decidedly towards the open-concept model. There is a strong tendency to seek out and identify with one’s inner child. We are encouraged to play with colours, to create pictures, to let ourselves go with the flow without worry. However, this is incredibly alienating to those of us who are seeking spiritual guidance in order to nurture our individual inner adults.

I’m wondering whether the problem I’m having  might be a conflation of factors. The distinct makeup of my congregation is certainly one aspect of the issue. As a relatively young congregation (we’re about ten years old), the necessity to provide meaningful programming for young adults has been nonexistent thus far – it simply hasn’t come up. Furthermore, and I may be wrong here, within Unitarian Universalism, there seems to be a wide variety of opportunities for high school and college-aged young people, but for the post-university, aspiring professional crowd, there’s a distinct lack of resources. The best one can hope for, it seems, is a strong congregational or regional network, and I’m lacking in both.

Don’t get me wrong here – I do think that intergenerational friendships are overwhelmingly positive. I am involved with both the Service Leaders and the Chaplaincy Committee, and I have recently been asked by an eleven year-old girl to be her mentor as she enters our Coming of Age program. I am thoroughly enjoying all of these activities, which involve people spanning the age spectrum in both directions. It’s that I’m not feeling a lot of congregational support for myself as a young adult who hasn’t quite decided what she wants to be when she grows up, but wants to get there sooner rather than later.

Those of us in our mid-twenties have come into adulthood in an age of perpetual childhood, of indecision and of quarter-life crises. Many of us young adults are just testing the waters as self-actualizing, fully responsible beings, and it is tremendously misguided to assume that those of us beyond our initial formative periods are seeking to recapture some mythologized past. In other words, I’m sick of searching for my inner child as I am trying to shed my outer child. I am close enough to my childhood that I can remember all its growing pains and suffering rather acutely, and I’d rather not reify it into an idyllic past.

Ultimately, I do think that all stages of life desire movement forwards, upwards, and onwards. It is in these directions that I seek to go, and I am hopeful that in spite of my frustration,  my congregation, with all its positive attributes, will support my in this growth. What I can do to resolve this conflict remains to be seen.

Why I want to be a chaplain

I am currently involved in our congregation’s lay chaplaincy committee; my ‘official’ designation is ‘chaplain-in-training’. In Canada (I’m not sure what the situation is in the US), UU lay chaplains are trained to perform rites of passage. Most often, these are child dedications, weddings, and funerals, although there are also other requests. One thing I needed to do was to write a short piece explaining why it was that I wanted to become a chaplain. As I thought about my motivations, I was struck, through conversations with my fiction writer partner, by the familiarity of the narratives of very different human lives.  So without further ado, here is my ultimate answer to that question.

“Without a doubt, human beings are fundamentally creatures of narrative. Author Terry Pratchett refers to our species as Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee. Our fascination with stories manifests itself not only in our passive consumption of tales in all their forms, from books to movies, from comics to video games, but in our attempts to act them out throughout our lives.

Rites of passage provide formalized acknowledgement of the achievement of narrative milestones: these range beyond the well-practiced hatch, match, and dispatches; they extend beyond birthdays, the celebration of each successive year lived out; they cover everything from first day of school, to graduations, from entry into adulthood, moving eventually into sagehood. Rites of passage, then, denote beginnings and endings. These moments furthermore bestow a sense of purpose upon the periods lived between them.

It is crucial to remember that stories never, ever occur in isolation. They always play out against a backdrop of social, cultural, religious, and personal experience. Narrative moments also always display a distinct relation between the subject and his or her family, friends, and loved ones. Commemorating a milestone achieved is certainly not a solitary observance. Rather, they are communal celebrations.

Once upon a time, these observances were very strictly mandated through cultural practices. Nowadays, in the context of pluralistic relativism, it has become, in my opinion, absolutely necessary that we take on the responsibility of marking important moments in our lives’ journeys. In spite of the transience encouraged by our current urban social structure, we as individuals operating within this culture are yearning to redefine our capacity for narrative expression. Many people are seeking, or would like to be seeking, a manner in which they can honour the stories their lives describe, both personally and collectively, meaningfully if unconventionally, non-traditionally and yet grounded in shared values.

I firmly believe that Unitarian Universalist lay chaplaincy can provide an opportunity to pursue this goal. Our purpose is like that of a midwife: we are there to facilitate a ceremony of transition. It is not up to the master of ceremonies to impose any kind of spiritual imperative or moral requirement upon the process. Instead, there is a distinct respect held for the beliefs and values of those for whom the service is performed. It is they, after all, who seek us out to fulfill their needs. Individuals often seem as though their lives have been fragmented into a collection of puzzle pieces; as a chaplain, I would thoroughly enjoy the challenge of assembling these disparate components into a cohesive whole, in order to create ceremonies that unite and honour a person as a complete being, in birth, in death, and in between.

I have always loved stories. The most powerful I have encountered have been those unfolding as I watch – human lives themselves. Births, deaths, and all the milestones in between are the definable moments which, together, assemble into the story of a person. I am ultimately pursuing chaplaincy, fuelled by this fascination, so that I can contribute to these ongoing tales.”

A return

It has been a good long while since I updated; I could list the many reasons I haven’t posted, but I won’t. Not only would it be incredibly tedious, but in a sense it would also be dishonest. Instead, all I can really do is acknowledge that it hasn’t been a priority of late, and hope that in the future I will be more compelled to transfer all my ink and paper thoughts to the less personal medium of the computer.

And I need to relearn where the ‘Publish’ button appears on the screen.

Moving beyond blame?

I was camping with my family this weekend; while I first heard word of a church shooting from the car radio as I was drifting in and out of sleep, it was not until I arrived home and opened my computer that I learned that the target was a Unitarian church.

As the sordid details behind the killings emerge, we are discovering that the perpetrator, Jim Adkisson, was a mistrusting man in dire financial straits, who subscribed to popular right-wing thought in regards to the source of social and economic dysfunction. It seems to be certain that extreme, right-wing eliminationist hate rhetoric, peddled by talking heads such as Michael Savage, Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly, played a role in Adkisson’s decision to target a liberal Unitarian congregation. I am wary of attempts to place the blame squarely outside the actions of the gunman. Jim Adkisson was emotionally disturbed and isolated, and already had a history of violent unpredictability, if the restraining order obtained by his ex-wife, a former TVUUC member, is any indication.

I was fifteen when Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris unleashed a firestorm of bullets at Columbine High School in Littleton, CO. As a high school student with vaguely countercultural tastes, I remember being aghast at the veritable witchhunt that followed, as victims and investigators and commenters alike sought high and low for an Ultimate Source for the hatred displayed, as they settled upon Marilyn Manson, rock star and bogeyman to the right-wing, whose apparent disdain for humanity allegedly pushed the teenaged misanthropes into violent behaviour.

There are some fundamental differences between the two situations. In the case of Columbine, a popular scapegoat was seized upon rather viscerally by the vulturous news media. Manson, to his credit, maintained a very level head through the ordeal, which culminated in a thoughtful, articulate piece published in Rolling Stone magazine. In other words, Marilyn Manson responded to the controversy by engaging in dialogue, and emphasizing that rather than being the fault of a rock star, the high school tragedy represented the failure of society as a whole. In Tennessee, however, we have tangible evidence that the shooter believed the hateful rhetoric found on his property – a telling four-page letter detailing his hatred for gays and the liberal movement. While it was Adkisson’s hands that held the shotgun, Adkisson’s feet which brought him into the TVUUC sanctuary, it was words which he had appropriated that echoed through his head.

I suppose the important question is, will Ann Coulter, Bill O’Reilly, Michael Savage et. al come forward with statements condemning the tragedy at TVUUC, perhaps providing a more in-depth, even rational defense of their eliminationist remarks?* Will this horrible event trigger a wider discussion about institutionally-sanctioned hate speech? While it is a hopeful sentiment on my part, I fear that the most we will receive is a series of dismissive, “It’s not our fault someone takes our jokes seriously,” responses, with the emphasis upon the so-called joking nature of “must kill librulz” commentary. In essence, I’m prepared for the standard denial that anything they say could possibly cause actual problems in the real world.

*I’m not convinced that this rational defense even exists, but treatment of inherent worth and dignity is compelling me to ask whether there might be a minute possibility.

Honouring Memory

I lost someone a week ago; not a person I was particularly close to, though my partner was. This was the first funeral I have attended in support of friends, rather than as one directly and deeply affected by the death; outside the inner, immediate circle, I could step back and take in the situation in its entirety.

I have very few memories of Rob; the most poignant certainly remains the first time I met him, when Pudgy, his female cat, had just given birth to the litter of kittens, one of whom, a tiny tuxedo-patterned creature, was Mischa. Hunter would eventually bring her home and rename her as Tertia; Rob, upon offering him the kitten, said, “She’s my favourite, but she’s yours if you’re willing.”  Surrounded by the little fuzzy beasts, Rob radiated a happy, playful delight.

Approaching the creation of a ritual to commemorate a loved one is never an easy process. When death is sudden and unexpected, the task becomes exponentially harder – the details of music and prayer and structure fade into the background as grief and pain punctuate every decision. While mired in the excruciating mourning process, it is easiest to fall into simple soundbite clichés: “The Lord is my shepherd”; “Jesus Saves”.  The purpose of a memorial service is manifold: it is to honour the memory of the deceased; it is to provide an opportunity for emotional catharsis; it is to provide existential and spiritual support to thouse mourning. Ultimately, it is not even so much about the deceased, but about those who must continue in this world without him. However, I was saddened to realize that Rob’s official memorial service catered to a very specific group within the mourners; there was little attempt at unity within grief.

I was astonished at the absolute thoughtlessness displayed by the service leader; there was absolutely no clear plan of service, and it was simply assumed that everyone in the room participated in some form of popular Christianity.  I find it frankly insulting that vapid, insipid, Hallmark Christianity provides the default religious template for a service. The service highlighted, for me, one of the many reasons I am, slowly but surely, pursuing ministry as a calling and a career: no one should ever have suffer through a memorial service for a beloved friend, all the while feeling excluded from any spiritual respite. The overwhelming feeling I felt, punctuated by the thought “I could do a much better job of this” , was of helplessness; there was nothing I was in a position to do, beyond holding Hunter’s hand.

The atrocious spiritual dimension was offset by a beautiful, heartfelt, thoughtful eulogy presented by one of Rob’s oldest friends. Brent managed to highlight all the aspects of Rob worth remembering; he illuminated parts of Rob’s life unknown to those who came into the picture later, and he displayed exactly the humour and levity that was needed to counterbalance the heartbreaking loss everyone in the room was feeling, without discarding the underlying pain. It was certainly the high point of the ceremony; indeed, the lights, which had been off due to a power outage, flashed on suddenly as the first peals of laughter rang out in response to Brent’s words. I like to think that, in response to the rest of the service, Rob’s response would have been a shrug, followed by, “Eh, they do what they have to do.”

Yesterday, one of the chaplains at my UU congregation performed a very short candle memorial ceremony, as part of a presentation about funeral services. Its simplicity and concision brought tears to my eyes; it was a beautiful tribute to a beloved person (she recreated a ceremony she had previously performed), which seemed to soothe and comfort, and managed to convey a sense of peace accessible to those who couldn’t care less whether Jesus was coming to take them or not. I had tears in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, tears that had been previously unwilling, in face of the sterility of the day before. I wished that I had been able to provide something of the sort; something meaningful, something that might have been able to trigger feelings beyond irritation and frustration. But I wonder whether anyone affected would even want it.

And here’s where I hit a dilemma: I am certain I could provide something far more meaningful, a ritual modeled on the one above, within which everyone affected could achieve, at least on some level, the existential catharsis that a proper memorial service is supposed to trigger. I hate watching friends in pain; I detest even more the knowledge that I could actually make a difference, and yet not knowing if it is even my place to do so. Rob’s family did what they had to do, and, insulted as I am, I think that ultimately my friends will too. I know one person who is planning a future feast in celebration of Rob’s life, and I would like to contribute on both a ritual level, and in a more mundane, food-providing capacity. I just wish I could figure out how to do what I feel like I have to do, without either completely undermining my whole sense of purpose, or completely offending people I care about by making any kind of assumptions about what they need or want.

All I know is that someone good was lost, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Embodied Spirits

“Spirituality from the neck up lacks integrity.”

These words were spoken by a parishioner at our Pride service this morning.

It has been argued recently that we must reclaim religious language, from its rigid conservative roots and interpretations, and use it to describe our own religious experiences. We must not, it is claimed, be afraid of words like “idolatry, sin, salvation.” It is indeed crucial for us to reappropriate religious terms; at times, it seems, that we tend to focus on social occasions and issues. In terms of spiritual discussion, it is less difficult to direct most of our searching outwards; most it is often easier to focus upon moral considerations, rather than on transcendental experience. Ethics are instinctively practical rather than theoretical, and it is easy to place most of our attention upon tangible moral actions: how should we take care of our elderly? Where should we buy our groceries? It is a very different spiritual question to ask oneself, Who am I right now?

The language of religion has been abandoned not only because our moral conceptions have evolved beyond archaic judeochristian good/evil binarism. It has been abandoned because the language of spirituality is largely academic, tending towards valuing intellectual concepts at the expense of corporeal experience. The distinction between religion and spirituality, while certainly relevant within its own context, nevertheless lies within the frame of reference of the psychosocial. This placement of religious conception squarely within the realm of the ideal derives from a history of elevation mental experience above physical presence; one is eternal and abstract, the other is worldly and fleeting. From Plato to Aquinas to Descartes and beyond, straight through Christian dogma, the body has been vilified while the mind and soul were glorified. Individual self-discovery is posited as an internal, largely mental process; as such, we lack any sort of linguistic underpinnings for physical self-development. Experiential language, by definition, falls short of fully encompassing the spiritual experience, as it occurs. There are some boundaries our imperfect tongues cannot cross; mere words can only provide an approximate interpretation of momentous physical events.

Our bodies are increasingly being viewed as sources of spiritual understanding. This view is explored, notably, in modern pagan practice: male and female sexual roles, with particular regard to reproductive cycles, are honoured through rituals following an agricultural cycle. Sexual energy in particular is viewed as sacred, as it manifests the ultimate, palpable act of fertility. However, this binary conception of male and female presents a distinctly narrow perspective of the roles physicality and sexuality can possibly play within individual spiritual self-development. What of those who are gay, who cannot not find fulfillment from conventional sexual gender pairing? What of those whose sexuality expands beyond our simplistic gender concepts – bisexuals, transsexuals? What of the childfree, who do not necessarily seek to invoke reproductive principles through their intimate acts? Our conceptions of embodied spirituality are sorely lacking in diversity, and in expanding our practice of spiritual physicality, it is likely that we will in turn expand our conceptual realm to include an infinitely wide range of immanent physical experience.

It is not simply a matter of reclaiming religious language; it is a matter of reappropriating and expanding it in order to encompass the full scope of spiritual experience from mind to body and beyond. Individualism is as much a physical perspective as it is a mental outlook, and it is essential that we explore multiple aspects of our multifaceted selves, allowing our bodies to bridge the gaps language fails to cover. Perhaps what we need to do is focus less upon the language used to describe the experience, and more on the experience itself. In any case, in order to fully develop spiritual capacities, bodies must be completely integrated into the process of religious development. To do anything otherwise is to deny our full humanity.

Midsummer Enlightenment

This past Sunday, my UU church held its first summer solstice service. It was a beautifully arranged meshing of pagan circle-casting and nature-reverence with Unitarian standbys such as the meditation, and the sharing of joys and concerns. Everyone in attendance seemed to enjoy it; there was an openness which lent itself well to a shared energy flow between congregants.

The deep comfort I felt with the congregation in service reminded me that it had been a very long time since I had performed a full solitary ritual on my own. I think that I had become so involved the communal aspect of spiritual questing, a factor long absent in my life, along with its attendant ritual structure, that I began to neglect my own individual practice. I felt myself becoming, in spite of myself, one of those for whom spirituality is only sought on Sunday mornings, one whose religious development is contingent exclusively upon the group. Rather than feel trapped, however, I took this awakened thought as an inspiration. I returned home, head and heart full of light and joy, seeking to expand my spiritual practice back into the hearth from which it sprang.

I began by evaluating the connotations I hold towards seasonal celebration. In other words, I had to ask myself, what does the solstice mean to me? Usually, I have tended towards granting more importance to the winter solstice, both because the latter is surrounded by cultural holiday relevance, and because it generally indicates a turning point in my experience of seasonal depression. The summer solstice, in contrast, is the point, astronomically speaking, where the northern hemisphere is at the apex of its tilt towards the sun; it is the day where we experience the longest amount of sunlight, and thus the shortest night. Beyond its mere physical aspects, however, the solstice provides ample metaphor couched in myth, with light as its main vehicle.

Light denotes an ages-old conception related to understanding and knowledge; it is entrenched in our vocabulary, in words such as illumination, enlightenment. From Platonic myth to 18th-century political awareness, light has provided a literary stand-in for expanding awareness. When one is touched by light, one has moved beyond previous knowledge into a new realm of understanding. The solstice, according to some Neopagan thought, is the point where, light in the natural world being at its strongest, magical energies are at their height, where possibility has the potential to be transformed into actuality. It is a day of dreams entering reality, and many observant pagans celebrate, among other ways, by listing their hopes and wishes, and casting them into the flames, that they may manifest themselves in reality.

This I did, for the very first time; I placed my dreams into the flames of my solstice fire (in my apartmental case, a big red candle). Moreover, I established a clear ritual space in my living room, simple and yet compelling. I prepared a wide variety of local, fresh, seasonal produce acquired from the green grocer. Most importantly, I have realized that it is essential not to confine my worship and practice to one day a week, or per season – the sense of peaceful reverence I derive through simple ritual is something I require on a regular basis. In order for me to maintain that crucial spiritual connection with the world around me, my relationship with it must be continuous and mutual; in other words, my practice is undergoing a necessary expansion beyond acknowledging seasonal flux, to living it, in the bright warm summer months, as well as through the cold, barren winter.

LOL UUs and the Problem of Syncretism

A member of an LJ community devoted to Unitarian Universalism, Chalice Circle, recently created a new blog, LOL UUs, invoking the popularity of macros while displaying a humourous, tongue-in-cheek religious sensibility, poking fun at the stereotypes surrounding Unitarian beliefs, and making well-founded and entertaining, if (intentionally) misspelled historical and social pronouncements.

The image which struck me the most was the first one created.

One of the major criticisms leveled against Unitarians by mainstream as well as more conservative theologists refers to the lack of central, unifying dogmatic structures which would serve to characterize our faith: “Liberal religions promote moral relativism;” “They don’t actually believe in anything at all;” “They want to brainwash our children into believing that they can do whatever they want with no consequences.” Because our congregations seek to grow and flourish without central, distinctly theological tenets, these critics believe that our faith is a faith without foundation, without the rock-hard dogmatic certainty of absolute knowledge; it is the proverbial house built upon sand.

Now as any thinking Unitarian knows, it takes little argument to dispel these preconceptions. Unitarianism is a faith which resolutely denies the existence of one all-encompassing absolute. Instead, it operates as a framework within which spiritual experience can occur. The nature of spiritual encounter, then, is highly personal Ultimately, the core Unitarian belief seems to be that an open and tolerant communal structure is the ideal foundation for individual spiritual searching. It aims for as perfect as possible a balance between individual self-determination and mutual support.

An issue I find more compelling and yet a little more troubling is that depicted in the image above. As members of communities of individuals, we are encouraged to seek our own personal truths. This liberty, combined with the freedom confirmed by a near-limitless access to information, has resulted in philosophies worlds apart being fused together into unorthodox, often contradictory, individual beliefs. Ideas abound to the point where, untethered from their cultural sources, they are threatened by meaninglessness.

It is not that I wish to deny the legitimacy of a self-constructed structure of belief, deriving from multiple sources; on the contrary, if we are to develop our own conceptions of truth, it is essential that we explore as wide a variety of options as we require. Moreover, I would argue that it is crucial, in the aim of mutual understanding, to seek out shared spiritual space with others. Indeed, this experience tends to break down barriers between us and others; as it develops, people cease to see each other as Other, as foreign and unknown. It is equally essential, however, to acknowledge that traditions are inextricably tied to their cultural background.

A rather disquieting trend I have noticed is an adoption of beliefs from a variety of systems with little to no regard to the cultural context in question. In this case, it seems that rather than overcoming the boundaries between self and Others, religious seekers are instead reifying the Other, positing something, sometimes anything beyond white North American culture as an absolute standard of truth.

It’s a problem I find a lot in the martial arts world: disillusioned, post-religious souls gravitate towards a foreign source of wisdom, fervently seeking a perfected relationship with themselves through some concept such as chi. The newly-discovered system, for these people, provides absolute answers which were lacking beforehand; and yet, it often seems that they’re missing the point. It is indisputable that the flow of energy known as chi comprises an important component of Asian martial arts; however, it is essential to remember that the Asian martial arts were developed within societies steeped in Buddhist, Taoist, and Shinto frameworks. The use of chi in martial arts was an extension, or a mirror, of its function in greater society; this origin has been transformed, here, into a quasi-dogmatic, externalized structure which is only really explored in class. The dojo thus replaces a conventional church.

This is simply an example of distorted transference of beliefs which can occur when they are removed from the context within which they evolved. I have a tattoo of the character “Tao” on my lower back; the calligraphy was taken from one of my dad’s karate belts, and I got it done after I got my black belt. My first instructor (and most influential, apart from my father) was Japanese, and practiced calligraphy as well as karate; having spent much time during my formative years with him, I was exposed at a young-ish age to Taoist concepts, and the idea of martial arts as a way of life. A couple of months ago, I was at my local laundromat loading a dryer, when the Chinese owner excitedly came over and talked to me about my tattoo. Having a pretty good understanding of Taoist cosmology, I sat and talked to him while my clothing tumbled in the machines behind me. Our conversation concluded with him exclaiming, smiling, “Tao is everything!”, as he gestured a wide circle with his hands, as if he could encompass the entire universe in a sweep of the arms.

This experience reminded me that it is important to remember that crossing cultural boundaries in order to share one’s practices is a gift, rather than an entitlement. The mere fact that we are each embarked upon our own personal quest for truth does not automatically grant us the right to pillage beliefs and practices from cultures we are not a part of, in particular where cultures oppressed through imperial tactics are concerned. In short, it’s essential to maintain communication with people, actual individuals, who live out their philosophies.

Reclaiming Mythology

I commented a couple days ago on a friend’s post regarding personal conceptions of the divine. As a nitpicky academic, I mentioned that our notions of deity stem from a combination of personal experience and an external framework, which often appears in the form of culturally-based mythology. I realized that it would be really helpful to further develop my understanding of the function of mythology.

Today, the word is replete with negative connotations: ‘mere’ myths are unquestionably understood as archaic stories which lost their relevance through the development of science or through the adoption of monotheistic thought. Mythology tends to describe belief within the world view of a time long past: pre-christian, pre-science, pre-enlightenment. Mythology, according to the modern usage of the world, refers to a belief which must be discarded in face of objectively demonstrated truth.

It is, however, a gross misunderstanding to reduce the status of mythology to a simple, causality-based storytelling mechanism; even more troubling is that it is reified into a solid, unchanging entity. Mythology is not meant for static reading. Myths are dynamic interactions between human beings and their environments: they were written for performance, whether through dramatic interpretation or through poetry bellowed into the night. Mythology ultimately describes human interaction with forces beyond their control, and as the stories develop, they acquire layers of subtlety and history which reflect the ongoing struggle between the people and the divine. Fertility tales, for example, present far more than a verbal rendering of ancient beliefs about natural processes. They encapsulate human doubts and fears relating to the potential success or failure of their crops; they venerate culturally-defined gender roles and capacities; finally, they underscore the role and position of human beings within the cosmos.

In modern Pagan culture, there tends to be a divide in terms of interpreting mythology, between ‘hard’ theism and ‘soft’ theism. While the former asserts the particular existence of the specific deities describes, the latter views the divine representations contained in mythology as being primarily allegorical. In the second instance, then, the gods and goddesses of polytheistic traditions are representative of human experience and development, rather than existing as individual forces apart from, though intensively involved with, human beings.

In the past few years I have moved away from including specific divine representations in my spiritual practice. First of all, I do not tend towards hard theism: my unrelenting inner skeptic, combined with a lack of fundamental identification with a cultural religious tradition such as Judaism or Heathenism or Hellenic Reconstructionism, tends to discount belief in any kind of external divine entity. I have been equally suspicious of the allegorical approach, mainly because I’ve been reluctant to separate myths and deities from their cultural context; cultural imperialism does seem to be a significant emerging problem in modern society, very notably in the realm of spirituality. (This will have to be fully explored in a later post)

That said, there are a handful of myths which have inspired me to reflect upon my experience and condition, from that second, allegorical perspective. The Eleusinian Mysteries centered upon Persephone and Demeter provide one such thing; while it provides an explanation of seasonal change, it also presents a glimpse into the notion of cyclical development within human spiritual knowledge. The construct of Inanna/Ishtar is equally interesting to me, as a female divine representation who is both attached to, and yet possessing a distinct freedom from, the male power figures she is associated with – an ancient conception of a goddess which extends far beyond her reproductive roles. Durga is particularly formidable, as a female figure famously untouchable by the opposite sex. I suppose the latter examples reflect a particular, embodied feminist streak which pervades my conception of the divine; again, this is something I hope to explore in a later post.