|
I may not have had the language for it when I was younger, but I think that I have always been a spiritual person. A seeker, interested in the vast mysteries of the world, the threads that connect us. Someone who cries at sunsets and in particularly perfect forest clearings. Someone who feels the tingly presence of something divine when experiencing live music or the collective effervescence of a dance floor or packed stadium. Someone who gives meaning to goosebumps, synchronicities, and signs. For six weeks, I met weekly with a group of strangers-turned-soulfriends to talk about spirituality. Our Zoom meetings had ritual; we began and ended in the same way every time, we sat in mindfulness together, we journaled and reflected, we pulled things apart and put them back together, we asked big questions and got comfortable with not having answers. Together, we skipped layers of small-talk, jumping right to the heart of things. I feel most alive in these deep waters; co-creating a space of mutual safety to dive beneath the surface. Soul meeting soul. Halfway through we were prompted to tell our life stories through the lens of our spirituality. This was a powerful prompt for me. It helped me to consider the ways my spiritual autobiography makes me who I am, and has equipped me with the tools to serve others and create community in the way that I do. It also made me realize that this part of my story has been largely untold. I felt the nudge to share it in this edition of The Pour, I think it might be Glass Full’s truest origin story. Buckle upppp, let’s go along for the ride. I was baptized Catholic as a baby and received my First Communion at 7. Our family didn’t attend church and religion was not a big part of our young family’s life. When I was 10, we got a pamphlet in the mail for one of those non-denominational Christian rock band churches that was setting up in the neighbourhood high school on Sundays. We went for the first time around Easter and continued going regularly, and I really loved it. Being a youth group girlie became my whole personality from grades 5-8. This was an incredibly impactful time in my life that informed my values in a significant way. I learned about compassion and sharing feelings openly and vulnerably with others. I learned about going against the grain and sticking to my values. I felt seen and held by my peers and the adults that supported us. I was also taught repressive views about sexual purity that harmed more than they helped. I learned shame, and how to carry the pressure of being “good”. At home, apart from grace before dinner, our upbringing was still not particularly faith-based. My dad found lifelong community and friendships within the church. My mum’s bookshelves held books about the Chakras, Autobiography of a Yogi, Anatomy of the Spirit; her own spirituality has always been profound, independent, and not bound by any one thing. In high school, I had aged out of youth group and our family moved so I stopped going to church. It was a time of transition during which I didn’t think about spirituality a lot. I journaled, but wouldn’t have considered this a spiritual practice at the time. I probably would have still checked off the “Christian” box on a form, but it had become a much smaller part of me. And yet, I would often turn to prayer in the moments that called for it, and some of those learned values (both good and less so) had remained. At University I did a double major in International Development Studies and World Religion. I learned about religion from a completely academic perspective. The Bible that was once a guide and sacred text for me became a literal textbook for some of my courses that I’d highlight for exegetical purposes alongside other sacred texts from the Tao te Ching and Confucian Analytics to the Tanakh, Sutras, and Vedas. I took courses in Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism, and Judaism. I studied the philosophy of religion with the root purpose of understanding humans. I was drawn to the overlapping places and spaces of our connectedness. What motivates us? What rituals bring us together? What divides us? I don’t think I knew this then, but I was seeking. When I graduated university, I had deferred my acceptance to a Masters program in Faith and Globalization at the University of Durham in the UK. I wanted to work in my field for a year and save money. I got a job at a Christian think tank that conducted research on religion in the public square. I was there for three years and during that time, I returned to my Catholic roots. I felt unmoored as a 22 year-old feeling fresh wounds from the recent divorce of my parents and living back at home in the suburbs after four years in another province. I was missing city life and the community of friends I’d gotten used to having around me. I started going to Mass by myself on Sundays and fell in love with the ritual of liturgy. Being greeted, anointing myself with holy water, genuflecting, singing hymns alongside strangers, reciting in unison, and the dance of standing, kneeling, sitting. I also felt connected to my Catholic ancestors on both sides. These predictable rhythms were a comfort to my seeking heart. I can distinctly remember going out drinking and dancing at the club with my friends and waking up early the next day for Mass. I remember dating a lot during this time, pushing my own boundaries with men and then going to my faith-based workplace on a Monday. I felt a lot of dissonance and shame; I didn’t know who I wanted to be, I didn’t know how to reconcile the parts of the Catholic church that weren’t aligned with my values, I didn’t know that changing my mind didn’t make me a person that lacks integrity. I didn’t know that I had ventured further away from myself. Sometimes I tell that version of me that it would have been safe to be a curious and free 20-something. That I could release the pressure of being “good”. That I am not made to be anything for anyone else. At 23 years old, my rebellious phase was taking catechism classes for a year and getting Confirmed at Easter. The following year, I walked the Camino de Santiago, a traditionally Catholic pilgrimage. In a plot twist, I came back with an unshakeable knowing that the higher power I believed in didn’t need me to follow the path of dogma and institutionalized religion in order to validate my worthiness, my own divinity, my access to Love. I often joke that I went on a Catholic pilgrimage and came back less Catholic. Within a year, I left that job which was no longer in line with my values, I stopped going to Mass and shed the guilt that came with that, I moved downtown, I met my love Mr. Glass Full, and I met myself. I freely explored the pockets of spirituality that had always whispered to me. I allowed myself to slowly shed the layers of who and what I thought I needed to be. I continued to unlearn and unpack some of the lingering youth group lessons around sexuality. I began to critically analyze what played into my need to be palatable and liked above authentic and honest. I questioned the role that institutionalized religion played in the harm towards women, racialized people especially Black and Indigenous people, and LGBTQ2S+ communities especially trans folks. I began the ongoing process of getting free from whatever voices bind me to the search for validation outside of the self. Now, ten years later, I am the “spiritual, but not religious” type that a past version of me would have judgmentally scoffed at. I am a metaphysical minister licensed to solemnize marriages. I am a space holder. I am a ritual artisan. I watch sunsets and feel connected to the world around me. I honour the seasons with ritual. I journal and know that this is a deeply spiritual practice for me. I honour the lunar cycles. I express gratitude and live a life committed to finding the beauty and good around me. I meditate and practice yoga. I connect to my intuition with oracle cards, I enjoy the mystical and metaphysical, and I find moments of spiritual beauty in long walks in nature, heart to hearts with friends, really good sex, or a perfect chocolate chip cookie. I believe in loving others. I know that my channel to a higher power is authenticated by me, and me alone. I am still a seeker, and I don’t claim to have anything figured out. I especially don’t think that my path is right or the only way. I don’t feel like I am at an end destination that others need to move towards. I hope I continue to learn and grow. Short of using your beliefs to cause or substantiate harm for others, I support you in whatever your spiritual path looks like. Maybe none of this resonates at all, and that’s fine, too. I believe the path I’ve walked is mine and I know that when I hold ceremony circles, or write copy, or bring people together in marriage, or ask the right questions, or create rituals for life’s sacred milestone moments, I am armed with a lifetime of digging, seeking, learning, and uncovering ways for us to be connected and to love; self, others, and the world. As always, a prompt: Do you have a spiritual autobiography? Is there another system or lens that guides your worldview? I invite you to think about your story from this perspective, you might be surprised at what it offers.
|
