(That metaphor took some thought. I started with “coffee house” or “salon” but images of lonely paths and trees kept coming to mind. I think these writers would prefer a picnic anyway.)
Paul Kingsnorth (a lot of content is subscriber only but there are still many interesting pieces available)
Edited to add:
The list could be longer I’m sure, but this group is what I’ve been reading on a fairly regular basis, and I like seeing how the writers often attempt to go deeper into each others’ ideas. But the voices still are unique and it doesn’t feel, at this point anyway, like people parroting each other or repeating slogans, though there is common vocabulary (such as references to “The Machine”.)
One essay that seems to have struck a chord with this group and many other people is Paul Kingsnorth’s A Wild Christianity (discussion here). Paul is an effective storyteller. His essays come across as an exploration into questions he himself is still seeking answers to, rather than as arguments about a certain dogma. I don’t know Paul personally, but I assume that this is a true impression and he really is the seeker he appears to be in his essays. I appreciate his voice as he addresses the questions not just of our outer world (civilization and history and politics and so on) but also our inner world. No experience or understanding is complete without this inner exploration: I feel quite strongly that this is universally true. I certainly try to act as though it is.
In a time when the temptation is always toward culture war rather than inner war, I think we could learn something from our spiritual ancestors. What we might learn is not that the external battle is never necessary; sometimes it very much is. But a battle that is uninformed by inner transformation will soon eat itself, and those around it. Kingsnorth, March 3rd 2023
I was moved by “A Wild Christianity” and I felt after reading it a call to do or be something, but I couldn't say what. My most basic impulse is to go out in nature and be there with the sights, sounds and sensations of the wild. That is never the wrong thing to do. And now it is March, and even inside my house in an urban area I can hear birds singing more often; I feel the effects of longer daylight hours; and even with snow on the ground any warm day with melt-off hints at flowing water, thaw and growth. I yearn to be part of that, to walk below tall trees and climb low hills, to wear florals and flowy fabrics, to match the patterns of spring.
Then maybe a week later, I read this response to Kingsnorth: A Fire that Purifies by Peco, at Pilgrims in the Machine. Peco is also a storyteller and explorer.
We have a habit, say, toward fear or anger or pornography, or whatever haunts our conscience or unsettles our spirit. Prayer disrupts these tendencies and turns us away from them, so that when the anger or fear creeps up again, or we feel temptation coming on, we are more ready, more able, to deal with it, more ready and able to re-align the flow of our spirit.
Prayer is disruptive, but so is the Machine. There is the outward disruption, in the form of devices and ChatGPTs and simulations, and—like prayer—an inward disruption.The tools of the Machine invite us into their own rhythms and patterns: the incessant checking of messages, the compulsive need to know what is happening “out there” in the world or “over there” on that platform. But the real happening is “right here”, in and around our bodies.
The point of Peco's essay is not to give answers, but to pose a question:
What is your disruptive spiritual practice?
I have been thinking on that question for several days. It has, shall was say, activated my inner transformation, or at least presented a tangible way into it. By tangible, I mean something my distracted and often forgetful mind can hang on to. It is a sad truth that I can read beautiful words, true words, words with much thought and knowledge behind them, and forget them within the week. I keep a vague memory of something promising but nothing more. A question though: a question has a way of sticking in my mind.
What are my disruptive spiritual practices, or what might be the germination of them? What is it they are trying to disrupt?
In the quotation above, Peco gives some idea of what is being disrupted: unthinking patterns of behaviour, especially those to some degree embedded in technology. I disrupted my social media use back in early 2021, and feel nothing but relief and gratitude. Two years on, I can say that getting off of the social media habit/addiction has been nothing but beneficial. Sometimes you cannot see things for what they are until you step back. For example, it took many months for my thoughts to stop automatically forming Facebook updates. For a long time after I ceased actually making any updates, I still thought in them. It was weird and disconcerting to realize this. It doesn't happen often anymore. (Not never though. 8 years of habit doesn't go away overnight.)
Still, that's a ways in the past now. What about today: what am I disrupting right now, and how?
- I think the first and most disruptive thing I do is recognize that disruption is necessary. I am busy and active, but I need to take time to not be busy and active. For me this looks like (auditory) silence and solitude. Writing this blog for example. I suppose it is not an entirely silent activity, as I'm still writing words, but I'm focused internally, not on verbal conversation. It is a kind of conversation, but different.
- Humility is disruptive. Openly and deliberately admitting I don't have the answers, that I'm always experimenting, that I frequently make mistakes. Aiming to be truthful, to speak about my experience honestly, not to censor myself, but not to try to persuade anyone either or come across as better than them.
- Deliberately choosing the stories I immerse myself in. We have on-again off-again discussions in our household about whether we should acquire things like Netflix or Disney Plus or Amazon or whatever. There are advantages to such things. We have little kids that like to be entertained. Why are we watching the same movie for the 50th time when there is a world of entertainment out there?
- Yet I always end up on the side of no, let's stick with our DVD collection and the documentaries on our current not-very-satisfying streaming service. Part of this is my age and history I guess: I grew up with (not having) cable and only one or two channels on the TV. To me not having what I want all the time is normal. But I also don't want our children, especially, to be too easily immersed in commercially-produced stories. I want them to have the temporal and mental space to hear and make their own stories: familial, personal, cultural. That is easier to do without a hundred different shows to get addicted to at any given time.
- Working with my hands. This could be our endless laundry, or tidying and organizing the house, or crocheting and knitting. Less frequently, creating art. I love to write, but creating something tangible has a weight to it that the abstract creation doesn't have. I need to do both, basically. Limiting the online activity has made me more likely to pick up my hooks and needles again. This week, for example, I made a cowl scarf as a gift for a friend. I plan to make one for myself, as well. In addition to the finished product I enjoyed the number patterns in this project: 7's, 3's, 9's, 24's, 60. And 13. Yes, maybe I'm a little weird. I enjoy number patterns. I also strongly suspect that the designer did not choose these numbers by chance and it feels like a private joke I share with her.
I can probably think of more, as the question sticks in my mind. In fact, I think "What is your disruptive spiritual practice" will by my theme for 2023. Back in January I started wondering what the theme of the year might be, and collecting thoughts (my own and other people's) that resonated. As I think on that collection, I believe this question encompasses much of it and also provides direction.
Peco talks a lot about prayer, as do many of the other writers in my list. I have tried to have a prayer practice now and again. I end up feeling at a loss though, like I don't know what I'm trying to embody. Ironically I had more success encouraging my eldest daughter to pray before bed, as a way to respond to her fear of darkness and nightmares. I think part of the problem/point is that religious practice would be the most disruptive spiritual practice I could undertake and that scares me. Into that space of confusion and fear come a lot of rather petty and resentful thoughts too. I envy lapsed Christians because they at least have the vocabulary and custom of a spiritual practice, even if they are not following it currently. They seem to be able to slide back into it (and out of it) with ease, whereas I feel like a fake and an imposter. For example, our family and extended family was at a Ukrainian cultural event a few weeks ago. Before dinner, grace was said. My husband crossed himself and repeated the appropriate words at the right place, a remnant of childhood practice, but a thing he never does in daily life. I stood there with folded hands thinking: how many hours of podcasts about Christianity have I listened to, and books have I read, but I don't know this practice and would feel like a total poser if I tried to fake it.
I don't know the way out of all these snarly avenues of thought, but maybe it's part of the journey. Something I have observed is that the closer I get to something coherent and whole, the more aware I am of my own fragmentation. Being close makes me feel farther away. I will keep asking my questions, and hope that they can show me a way through the paradoxes.
From Peco at Pilgrims:
ReplyDelete“My husband crossed himself and repeated the appropriate words at the right place, a remnant of childhood practice, but a thing he never does in daily life. I stood there with folded hands thinking: how many hours of podcasts about Christianity have I listened to, and books have I read, but I don't know this practice and would feel like a total poser if I tried to fake it.”
And of course you shouldn’t fake it, if that’s what it feels like. Having said that, sometimes it takes time to get accustomed to a tradition. The other thing I would note, particularly with regard to Orthodoxy, is that it is a maximalist tradition, with great richness and complexity, and yet (in my experience anyway) it is more invitational than impositional. You are invited to the banquet, but nobody will kick you out if you don’t eat everything in the feast, or even if you stand on the sidelines, nibbling on a crust of bread.
Thanks for reading and leaving these encouraging words. I am undertaking this exploration with much (I think) goodwill and curiosity but also a great deal of self-consciousness and hesitation. So I appreciate that you located the part of this entry that I felt most awkward about and said something kind.
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