Cleanliness of spirit is next to sanity. My gawad, my Southern inflection elongates, wanting to emphasize how drawn-out exasperatively we are as a human race in our refusal to unify for many a cause. The idea of god that I was raised upon is about purging our pollution. Its ethics is founded in purifying, washing, rewashing, and scrubbing the shape of our hearts towards a sheen of support for and with one another. You can’t skip off to your own cozy room when the adrenaline is tough and expect the bad people or emotions to *poof* disappear into thin air. Where I come from, my god is your god the same. If you’ve got a god going at all. Maybe he’s helping or ignoring you. (Which, generally, amounts to specifically an identical thing.) Heck, even if she’s bathed you in prominence and then left you crackingly drying until your skin is down to its bones dry-heaving. This god business is soul-affinity integration.
That which matters is simply gonna stir your feelings intensely. It might be a full-fledged scrambling or a sweet rambling. Yet, the effects of true god-consciousness present demonstrate powers for good. They’re not an opposing devolution mechanism. If you’ve met persons, or even had some intimately personal thoughts, aimed at lashing, especially externally, I’m citing a disconnect from godly etiquette. It’s rather typical to skip the icing every single day. For some unknown reasons, life just ain’t lined up to keep delivering ethereal rosary excellence for everyone 24/7–365-style. But the god factor is where we can bond to a balance of restoration grace. Holding space isn’t a one-way street. If you believe in any form of god, such solitary directional thinking flips into the omnipresence of you eternally having a two-way loyalty with god in a lane.
I’ve been bumbling the last year through what author Valarie Kaur questions as: “… is this the darkness of the tomb — or the darkness of the womb?” in her shrewd book See No Stranger I tripped through. Whatever threatens us is often our greatest mentor. Whereas stormy can be cloudy with a side of rain and it’s still set to eventually shine. That’s god for ya. For example, confusion is reduced to a tide subsiding into clarity if given ample patience to move out to ‘sea’(/see). The act of revelations being the nucleus of countless issues. Suffering tragedy is so common. Whether the person is ignoring their own pain, or families or society or else are ignoring individual, community, national or planetary aches. Why voicing what’s really bothering the body we may surrender much of the force. How the conversation of having a conversation of sorting the fragility of one’s reality can round those morose corners.
As a second gem of Kaur’s writing, she quotes Franciscan Priest Richard Rohr: “Pain that is not transformed is transferred”. These words, a lightning bolt of value scorching throughout me. In a hot flash (vastly differing to the menopausal sweats that tickle by comparison), I reflected how ‘easily’ pain lashes out when it’s been neglected. I immediately felt the burning rage of Colorado’s shootings to my cancer boil inside of me. Vexations, so very sadly, claw their way to a surface. Awfully, viscously, horribly parallel. God-speak is no place for separatist mentality. Sympathy for the devil plays on this level. Global violence doesn’t stop shaking us. Although, I’m an affirmer in what it can make of us. I credit that I’m part of a collective that cares enough to deliberate these grievances. I guess I’m sharing this since empathy is weighing on me. We must learn to listen deeply in order to amend horrors interior to exterior.
Grounding in god is no small task. Walking a mile in my shoes or yours only seems sure-footing when perfectly unsoiled. If the path begins to cover us in dusty dirtiness, the slog could become too great. Desertion parades as a solution that solely rejects responsibility. Frequently, we’ll consider an abandonment jump from our foundation. However, filthy is merely an opportunity to steam up your immaculation. Smutty turns to putty for god to pontificate. The cycle of holy living queries us clothed or barefoot, pumped up or downtrodden. What I gather it’s asking is that we don’t leave a muddy mess behind for someone else to tend to. That we pick up after ourselves of obstruction. That we reckon the rudeness of waiting too long to shower ourselves to a sparkle. Hopefully serving several along that route, with that routine, modeling a version of god’s pristine meaning.
May your stoke stay faithfully naked and unafraid to be wiped clean.