Last month, Dan Savage found himself in the middle of a media shitstorm (what else is new?) when he referred to parts of the Bible as “bullshit”, and referred to the students who walked out of his talk over this “insult” as “pansies”. Savage later apologized for the latter comment, but doubled-down on the former, arguing that all religions have irrational or outdated dogmas that ought to be questioned, and, when warranted, abandoned.

But they are wrong when they claim that I “attacked Christianity.” There are untrue things in the Bible—and the Koran and the Book of Mormon and every other “sacred” text—and you don’t have to take my word for it: just look at all the biblical “shoulds,” “shall nots,” and “abominations” that religious conservatives already choose to ignore. They know that not everything in the Bible is true.

Dam straight. That should should apply to all faiths. In this regard, I’ve always admired the ruthlessness of science. Most scientists aren’t afraid to throw out ideas that are no longer productive. Likewise, theologians and spiritual practitioners should feel free to discard the bullshit that’s been handed down to them across the centuries. The more dross we eliminate from our spiritual lives, the closer we come to practicing the essence of our faiths. What matters most is living a life of love and compassion.

I thought of all this yesterday when I ran across this story of six Korean Buddhist monks who were filmed gambling and smoking their asses off after a memorial service for one of their fallen fellows.

And so close to Vesak, no less. The scandal!

Of course, an interesting question is: Who recording this in the first place? Speculation is that the culprit was a rival monk who saw a way to push a few of his political competitors out the temple door. Ironically, the gambling monks got the boot, while the power-hungry monks get to stay. Who would you rather have as your spiritual counselor: a monk who knows how to let loose? Or a monk who uses Machiavellian machinations to secure more power for himself and his confederates?

Personally, I’m inclined to invite these six guys to gamble and smoke at my funeral. (And guys, if you could spare a few chants of the Heart Sutra? Much appreciated.)

Yes, yes – they violated their monastic vows, betrayed the trust of their countrymen, yada yada. Shame on them. But the rules they follow are bullshit anyway – a holdover practice from a less complicated time when we believed spiritual realization could be distilled down into a set of rules. For me, this is part of the bullshit of Buddhism.

Maybe there was a time and a place when our best spiritual seekers had to disengage from the violence and greed that surrounded them, and live their lives according to a rigid collection of commandments and prohibitions. That time has passed. I prefer my spiritual teachers flexible, engaged, involved…and, yes, a little bit flawed.

When I first started meditating, my motivation was selfish. Enlightenment was the goal, and I wanted to be the most enlightened kid on the block. People would praise my wisdom and insight, and buy my books by the caseload. There would be temples and t-shirts and coffee mugs. It was gonna be awesome.

Shockingly, my spiritual practice was anything but calm and peaceful. I remember getting pissy with my ex-wife when a change in a school field trip caused me to cut short a peaceful spiritual retreat. The irony was lost on me. I was as clueless as Mitt Romney drawing up sketches for a car lift. My practice, as Buddhists would say, was “too tight“.

These days? I haven’t scrubbed myself of this impulse. Far from it; it’s ever-present. It shows up whenever I babble on pridefully about my spiritual practice. Or when I get impatient and snippy because it’s 10pm and I haven’t sat zazen, and suddenly all of my kids are STARVING, DAD! Or when I beat myself up for having a “bad” zazen sit.

But at least I’m aware of it now. And knowing is half the battle.

I know I’m not unique. People of all religions and philosophies face this problem – whether they’re Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Scientologist, Atheist, or Friends of Bill. The best religions work to unbind our awareness of ourselves from our small egos, and help us identify instead with these “other people” who piss us off at regular intervals. They erode the illusory barrier between “I” and “Thou”.

But the ego’s stingy. It doesn’t cede any territory without a fight. So “being spiritual” becomes another way for us to separate ourselves from one another, and prove our superiority. On an individual scale, we become arrogant about our practice, and defend against anything that interferes with it. On a social scale, we end up with religions that preach compassion, love, and tolerance, but whose practitioners practice bullying, hatred, and murder.

Is it any wonder atheists get so pissed off at religion? Only it isn’t a religion problem per se. People are people. If being sage and wise were as easy as giving ourselves a label like “Christian” or “Buddhist”, we’d all have been reborn by now in the Pure Land, where Jesus and Mohammed would feed us cupcakes off of the stomachs of 40 virgins.

In Zen Buddhism, we point toward something called Buddha-nature to help dissolve this action of the ego. There’s no need to chase after enlightenment, because you already are Buddha-nature. There is nothing to attain; what we seek is already here. Beneath all of our drives and our fears, our true natures are free, open, and unrestricted. We attempt to diminish the desire to score a game-winning kick by demolishing the goal posts.

In practice, this means that we don’t have to be so grasping and territorial about our possessions, our children, our pride, or even our faiths. We don’t have to throw a fit when our day plays out differently than we’d imagined. We have a choice in every moment: we can retain our death grip on the way we think things ought to be…or we can relax, and admit that perhaps there are more things in heaven and Earth than our dreamt of in our philosophies. We can take life as it’s force-fed to us, rather than insisting everything come out our way.

And we do this, day after day, moment after moment, for the rest of our lives. Because there’s nothing to attain. There’s only the caress of your partner, and the abundant smell of spring after a long, hard winter.

Oh, and the starving children. Never forget the starving children.

The kids at my children’s Unitarian Universalist church have an expression: “Don’t yuck on my yum.” Translation: Don’t put down something I enjoy just because you don’t like it. This lesson is easily grasped by my eight-year-old son. Sadly, it appears lost on mother and fundamentalist Catholic Lisa Mladinich.

Mladinich’s Patheos article, “Killing Us Softly: Seduced by the Occult“, describes how she noticed her daughter acting “strangely”, scrawling randomly over white papers with a black crayon. What could have made this once happy child, who usually prefers pink and fuchsia, suddenly opt to draw nonsense in the preferred tone of 17-year-old Goth girls? Lisa finally sniffed out the culprit: her massage therapist was consorting with SATAN!

…then she said, “Oh. I had a Reiki adjustment a couple of weeks ago…” and then she proceeded to tell me how wonderful it was, how the Reiki master had cured her of a nightly sensation of “burning feet,” telling her that she had been a witch in a past life, and burned at the stake.

When she was finished talking, I very gently told this kind, sweet lady about my daughter’s recent behavior. I apologized sincerely for what I was about to say, but I terminated our relationship. My daughter was too young to be prejudiced, I decided. And she was telling me something loud and clear. Something was very wrong. I never went back and the scrawl never recurred.

Oh, come ON. Everyone knows Satanists use Sharpies. Geez!

I suppose we should give Mladinich a touch of credit for going the extra mile to separate the sinner from the sin. She’s really trying here. But it’s tough, given the rest of her rhetoric (emphasis added):

It is time for us to pray and fast. This is spiritual war. Necromancy (contacting the dead), Tarot cards, witchcraft, Reiki (or “healing touch”), psychics, astrology, and other occult practices are all forbidden by God because He loves us and wants us to come to Him, to live in Him, and to be truly happy and at peace.

These practices are dangers, not little pleasures or wonderful secrets. They will first steal away your faith in soft, pleasant stages, then destroy your peace, and if you don’t get help from the Church, will mortally wound your soul.

I must question how “at peace” Mladinich is if she’s scrying the Devil in a child’s scribblings.

When people rant against the intolerance of religion, this is what they’re ranting against. Tolerance is a two-way street. If you want people to tolerate your beliefs, you have to tolerate theirs. Mladinich has taken someone else’s beliefs and spiritual practices and co-opted them into her own personal drama. It’s a shameful act, like pounding political signs into someone else’s lawn.

Her screed invoking “spiritual war” is only a few degrees shy of “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”; all that’s missing are the torches and a mob of angry villagers. There is nothing separating this kind of militant rhetoric from the rhetoric streaming from the mouths of whatever al-Qaeda spokesmen we haven’t managed to kill.

I know Mladinich isn’t representative of all Christians and Catholics. Far from it. And she seems on the surface like a good, sincere person who truly thinks she’s doing the best for her daughter. It’s unfortunate that she’s become wrapped up in a fundamentalist mindset that compels her to see Satan hiding in her massage therapist. But it’s important to call this rhetoric out for what it is. Intolerance is the one thing we should never tolerate.

I’ve spent a lot of time attempting to reconcile my appreciation of video games with a spiritual, non-violent approach to life.

Sorry, that’s a terrible lie. I do no such thing. Instead, I play Halo: Reach with my kids, and ignore whatever tiny cognitive dissonance this generates.

What can I say? I contain multitudes.

When I was a kid, video games were a concept completely alien to their parents. By contrast, my kids have inherited a father who saw everything from the Atari 2600 to the Nintendo Entertainment System to the Neo Geo come and go. Having listened to this blather for my entire youth, I’ve grown jaded against cries of doom and despair hurled at video game culture. I’ve been listening to parents and other self-important authority figures bloviate about the dangers of gaming since I was playing Vanguard on the 2600. They’re useless, they say. They’re a waste of time. They turn kids into violent, thrill-seeking monsters who grow up to drink baby’s blood and vote for Mitt Romney.

Usually, those of us who enjoy gaming lamely point to the latest study about the benefits of increased hand-eye coordination or quick decision-making. As if anyone ever sits around thinking, “God, my hand-eye coordination is whack. If only there were a rapid, visually stimulating medium which could help me improve upon this. Then my life would be SWEET.” Let’s get real. We play video games because they’re fun. What’s more, they’re fun with feedback: success at a game brings a feeling of accomplishment (even if all we’ve really accomplished is to assist gravity in holding the couch to the floor).

I don’t play nearly as much as I used to. I’m lucky if I clock five hours in a week. Gone are the days when my mom was paying the bills, and I could hole up in my room with a plate of Stouffer’s French bread pizzas playing Metroid for seven hours straight. (True story.) But I still enjoy regressing to childhood a few times a week, once the business of being a grown-up is done. Every adult should have pleasures in their life that make them feel like a kid again.

Do I worry that they’ll make me violent? Not especially. I’ve never had a taste for real-world violence. If video games haven’t warped me into a sociopath by now, it’s never gonna happen.

I enjoy playing them with my kids as well. Their mom and I limit their time, and keep them from games that aren’t age-appropriate. In terms of violence, they’re old enough to distinguish fantasy from reality. (If only the same could be said for members of Congress.) It’s one of the many ways we have fun and bond with one another.

I stop thinking about all this as soon as my 12-year-old son and I sit down on the couch in front of the TV, and he wraps his arms around me.

“I love you, daddy,” he says.

“I love you too, boyo,” I reply, and ruffle his hair. “Now let’s go shoot some zombies in the face.”

We hear a lot from the right wing in America about how Christianity is a persecuted faith. And, in some parts of the world, it certainly is. Look at Afghanistan, where you can be sentenced to death for giving a friend a Bible. Coptic Christians have long been vilified and killed in Egypt, and the recent political turmoil has only made their situation worse.

But…in America? Where Christianity is still the majority religion? The best evidence that right-wing commentators can produce for their downtrodden state is uppity women who want comprehensive health care. Oh, and the “War on Christmas” – which isn’t about suppressing Christianity, but making allowance for other faiths and traditions.

Sadly, in the eyes of fundamentalists, “allowance” is equated to “attack”.

While everyone’s been focused on the national stage, the Florida Legislature has been busy fighting for “religious freedom” on a different front. See, in the past, Florida high school legislators felt free to lead their students in Christian prayers, assign them Biblically based assignments, and encourage them to join Christian extracurricular clubs. It was so bad at Pace High School in Santa Rosa County that this public institution was nicknamed “The Baptist Academy”. After the ACLU put a stop to that with their whole “Establishment Clause” nonsense, the legislature passed a law that guarantees religious expression…for the majority:

Backers say the bill, introduced by Sen. Gary Siplin, D-Orlando, doesn’t use the word “prayer” and doesn’t favor any specific religion, but allows students to pick a speaker and message of their choosing. If the chosen student gives a prayer or cites a specific religion, that’s his or her right, proponents say. Republican Gov. Rick Scott is expected to sign the bill.

Why not make it a rotating position among a diverse body of students? Why not pick who gives the invocation by lottery? The answer to that is obvious: this bill is intended to enshrine the “rights” of the majority of the student populace at the expense of religious minorities.

Anyone who claims such a law “protects students’ rights” doesn’t understand the first thing about why the Bill of Rights was created in the first place. As that Kenyan Socialist James Madison put it:

Wherever the real power in a Government lies, there is the danger of oppression. In our Governments, the real power lies in the majority of the Community, and the invasion of private rights is chiefly to be apprehended, not from the acts of Government contrary to the sense of its constituents, but from acts in which the Government is the mere instrument of the major number of the constituents.

Jason Pitzl-Waters recently cited Hindu professor Anant Rambachan along the same lines. Speaking of the Blunt Amendment, which would have allowed an employer to deny any type of health coverage on arbitrary grounds, Rambachan said:

“It is important that our voices also be offered in the public square. This amendment threatens to enshrine in law the perspective of particular religions and marginalize others. Once you start enshrining Christian morality into law, you inherently limit the religious freedoms of non-Christian faiths.”

True religious freedom is a stance which is tolerant and accepting of all religious beliefs. Subjecting religion to a majority vote isn’t “religious freedom”; it’s the tyranny of the majority about which Madison so eloquently warned us.

Recently, this video about murderer Joseph Kony has made the rounds, urging people around the world to contact their leaders and demand they help arrest the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army. Sounds like a nice idea, right? Who wouldn’t want to capture or kill a murderous madman who conscripts and kills children? So fork over your cash, you bastard!

If only it were that simple. As Mark Kersten points out, the political situation and its solution aren’t as tidy as the video implies. Kony is on the run, criss-crossing four borders. Northern Ugandans, who are enjoying a period of relative peace, place as much blame on their own government for the atrocities of the past as they do on the LRA.

Invisible Children, the group behind this viral campaign, is clear that Kony must be “stopped”. How? They only path I see is altruistic military intervention. You know, the kind of altruism we’ve benevolently bestowed on other nations.

It’s interesting that this issue should rear its head just as the drumbeat for war has erupted once again in the United States. The new decade’s monster: Iran. Once again, Americans are being told we might have no alternative but to declare war against an unseen enemy half a world away.

But these people don’t have to remain unseen. You can see them, right now, in major American theaters.

Last weekend, I went to the Egyptian Theater in Seattle and saw A Separation, the winner of this year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. A Separation, which was also up for Best Original Screenplay, is the first Iranian film ever to capture an Oscar.

I left the theater in tears. The movie was phenomenal, the storytelling acute and intricate; I’m amazed this film didn’t take the Best Original Screenplay award. The story itself is ordinary…and, as an American, that’s what I found so amazing about it. A couple, Nader and Simin, separates when the husband refuses his wife’s request to move abroad with their daughter. Unable to divorce, they live apart, and Nader hires a female caretaker – Razieh, a married woman – for his ailing father. When Razieh miscarries, she and her husband blame Nader – an accusation that plunges everyone involved into a whirlwind of blame and fear.

Now, my cultural knowledge of Iran extends as far as reading Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis. I know nothing of life in the country. The story is filled with touches which likely seem matter of fact to Iranians, but which fascinated me as an outsider. When Nader’s father soils himself, Razieh calls a religious counselor about whether it would be a sin to change him. We’re offered a window into an Iranian divorce proceeding, which apparently consists of a couple raucously pleading their case before a judge trained in Islamic law. (For an even more candid window into Iranian divorce courts, watch the free documentary Divorce, Iranian Style on YouTube.) Nader is charged with murder for shoving Razieh and allegedly causing her miscarriage; ultimately, it’s revealed that he can escape the charge by paying Razieh’s husband “blood money” for their loss.

All of these cultural mores are alien to my experience. Yet I could see the beauty of these lives; I could see how Iranians could not merely endure their lives, but embrace them, just as we embrace our own. Those who can’t connect with the film on this level can still find themselves in the characters, whose labors are universal. You can feel Simin’s desire to escape abroad, if even temporarily; Nader’s struggle to keep his family from falling apart as his father grows more frail by the day; their daughter Termeh’s grief as she’s forced to choose between her parents; Razieh’s struggle to prop up her indigent husband while caring for their daughter, and her fears of what his creditors will do to him should Nader refuse to pay.

As I left the theater, all I could think was: These are the people we’re going to kill.

As I type this, the United States and Israel are at the precipice of declaring another preventive war that will surely result in the loss of innocent lives.

Some of you will probably smack me with the Salmon of Skepticism for saying this, but I think the greatest thing we can do to achieve peace in the world is to achieve peace in ourselves. When talk of war enters the national discourse (has it ever really left?), I review the ways I remain “at war” with the people in my life. Do I blame others for my unhappiness? Do I pick fights for the sheer thrill of fighting? In what ways do I use anger, intimidation, or even violence to solve my problems?

Because it all boils down to the same cause. Fear. Fear of one another. Fear that we won’t gain or keep whatever we desire. The more we’re gripped by fear and anger in our daily lives, the more susceptible we are to being swept away by the winds of political agitprop. Remember how many Americans initially agreed that attacking Iraq was the “right thing to do”?

Graph courtesy of the Pew Research Center

I think about the fictional Iranians portrayed in A Separation, or of the brave Iranians who took to the streets against their own government last February, and I can’t help but think there has to be a better way. A way beyond fear and demonization. A way based on understanding the humanity of people we’ve only ever seen in 30-second news clips.

When I saw A Separation, the theater was almost halfway full. A decent showing. But it should have been packed. A Separation is exactly the type of video I wish would go viral.

Every military action carries a profound human cost. I only ask that you consider that before you help fund another war, whether it’s in Africa or in the Middle East.

I’ve been single now for closing in on three months. Barely a blip, right? But it’s the longest I’ve been un-partnered in 19 years. I’ve handled it primarily by using my time to dig more deeply into my spirituality. It’s been very rewarding. I just completed a four-day vacation weekend in which I had a lot of time to meditate, work with the Elements, and study up on the Witches Tarot.

But it’s taken a few dark nights of the soul to reach this point.

First, some background. I don’t drink any longer. I was a moderate drinker for years, went over a ledge (FTR, a pretty high fucking ledge), and realized I would be better off without it.

I didn’t go to AA. I simply poured everything down the sink, bought a bicycle, and peddled away my Jack Daniels ass. I’ve slipped a few times, but have enjoyed two years now drink and drug-free. I’ve tried AA since, on two separate occasions. I don’t care for it. I don’t believe in labeling myself an alcoholic, and don’t believe in telling people that they’re “powerless” over alcohol. It sets up an unhealthy, hypercritical dynamic (played out regularly in AA) whereby every success is to the credit of The Program, and every failure the fault of the individual (“it works if you work it”).

AA folks reading this: I’m glad your program works for you. Truly. What matters is that you’re alive and sober; everything else is detail. For my part, I made a conscious, rational decision to stop drinking; I renew that decision daily. When I need help, or feel tempted to drink, I rely on the support of family and friends, who stand behind my decision 110%.

But, Jesus H. Christmas Christ…nothing puts a commitment like that to the test more than ending a relationship.

Looking back, I know it was the right thing. It was messy. I made a ton of mistakes. I left a lot of pain behind with my partner and her kids when I left. But I was also able to perform a lot of healing with my own (biological) kids, who had felt like their dad had left them for “another family”.

But even when you’re the one who walks away, and you’re convinced that moving on is for the best, the loss of a partner leaves a heartache – a beating beast of pain that can’t simply be tranquilized. You rake yourself over the coals, breaking down and analyzing your own behavior at a microscopic level. You weep, you rage, and you blame. You suffer a thousand piercing needles of doubt and misery. You concoct schemes for begging your way back home, wondering how you’ll explain that to your family and friends. You convince yourself, in ways both subtle and silly, that you’ll never find anyone to love you ever again.

To my credit, when my relationship ended, I didn’t go on a drinking spree. What I did do was try and find another relationship, ASAP. It’s a pattern: I deal with love lost by flinging myself into someone else’s lap. Only it wasn’t working. I would meet people, and would either be standoff-ish or too aggressive. I was conscious of what I was doing, and was repulsed by it; I knew I was groping about for ways to numb myself.

One night, I’d had about as much of feeling empty and lost as I could stand. I went to what promised to be a wild party. If I couldn’t meet Mrs. Right, I could at least meet Little Miss Right Now.

The party was a dud. I left alone, feeling even more overlooked and depressed than I’d been before.

As I wandered the deserted main drag of an industrial district in Seattle, my eyes darted across both sides of the street for the glaring neon sign of a bar. Just one, I told myself. To take the edge off.

I walked faster, head bobbing from side to side, as the various compartments of my mind hashed out my first order. The old standby, Jack and Coke? Or perhaps a girly drink like a Cosmo, so long as the bar wasn’t too dive-y and populated by burly dock workers who never meant “cigarette” when they deployed the word “fag”.

I wasn’t finding anything. It was as if this single Seattle neighborhood had re-instituted Prohibition. There must be a fucking bar somewhere. The Rationalization Engine in my mind swung into full gear: How would I tell my ex? My kids? They’d never have to know; I’d never drink in front of them. For their benefit, you understand – not so that I didn’t have to confront the look of terror on my son’s face when he saw me tipping again, and his mind raced back to pre-divorce images of dad stumbling home half-conscious from Goddess-Knows-Where.

There wasn’t a single bar on that street in an eight-block radius. Or maybe there was, and something prevented me from scrying it. But there was a Whole Foods. Yes, out here, in the middle of West Bamblerfuck, Seattle, was a ginormous Whole Foods, stocked to the gills with vegan wine, Pacific Northwest microbrews, and enough sake to pickle the Imperial Japanese Army on V-J Day. That became my grand plan: to walk around some random street in Seattle with a bottle of Gekkeikan wrapped in a paper sack.

Except that every step I took in that direction came more slowly, as my feet grew heavier. At some point I sighed, shoved my hands into my pockets, and stopped halfway to my destination, beneath a blue shelter constructed by King Country Metro. Within 10 minutes, a bus arrived to take me to downtown, where some of my favorite bars of olden times had not yet even begun to pour.

I caught my connecting bus and went home.

I have no idea what steered me back home that night. There was no epiphany or bright shining light. At most, there was a tug of understanding: a realization, however reluctant, that being alone after being partnered for 19 years sucks, and that there is ultimately nothing you can do to stop it from sucking. You can attempt to drown it out. Or you can sit with it, and let it suck.

That’s what I did that night, and what I’ve attempted to do (imperfectly) since then. And it’s gotten better, slowly, like taking painkillers by the thimble. Let it suck, and work on my own shortcomings in the meantime – my impulsiveness, my discontent, my inability to stand my ground and suffer harsh criticism.

In the meantime, I carry forward in the faith that I’ll one day stumble across the woman I’m looking for. Someone who’s kind and compassionate. Someone who’s as up to attend a Full Moon ritual as to curl up on the couch and watch Doctor Who reruns. Someone who shares my interest in evolving spirit rather than accumulating crap.

And when that happens, I want to be ready for her.

Update:  I’ve deleted troll comments from this post, as my ex’s family and friends were all pitching accusations and curses. I don’t feel like debating my past relationships in public, and I’m not obliged to provide a forum for it. As with all relationships, there are two sides to the story, and each side has a piece of the truth.

I got sucked into watching the Oscars on Sunday night. We were having a birthday party for my eldest son, my son-in-law, and my ex-bro-in-law, so we were all hanging at my ex-wife’s. Given that my ex is a movie critic and a film director, it was either watch the Oscars or go the fuck home.

So we watched, and fun was had by all. We had a great time cheering Meryl Streep’s win, sighing every time The Artist carted home another gold, and either appreciating or enduring this year’s awards presentations. (Chris Rock owned it.) And it was touching watching my ex cry when her colleague and friend T.J. Martin took home the statue for Best Documentary for his film Undefeated; she’s a person of magnanimous soul, and is often more delighted by the success of others than by her own.

And of course, there were the bodies. Star studded bodies. Million dollar bodies sculpted and maintained by people for whom success is 80% image. There were a couple of token nods to Big Beautiful Women (Melissa McCarthy and Octavia Spencer), but by and large the body diversity on the stage ranged from “heroin chic” to “eight hours of daily elliptical training”.

Which, in one sense, is okay. We all have our personal fitness goals, and our our likes and dislikes about our current forms. I prefer being active and somewhat (emphasis on the “somewhat” lately) slim myself. If I had a million bucks, I might spend an hour a day on the treadmill, too.

But this fiction of the superfit becomes a problem when we begin to feel uncomfortable in our own skin. It’s a problem when the definition of “beauty” narrows to a sliver of the populace, as the culture bombards us and our children with physiques that are only possible in that peculiar fictional realm known as Hollywood.

In most Pagan traditions, both the body and the Earth upon which we walk are revered. The Earth is the Goddess, the Mother: She from which all things emerge and unto which all things must return. The body, born of the Earth and of the womb, is blessed. Many religions, both West and East, deny this view. The material realm is gross, filthy, subject to disease and decay. Best we not dwell on it, frankly. Even early Buddhism, while touting itself as a “Middle Way” between hedonism and asceticism, instructed its monks to forsake sex and to meditate on death as a means of achieving enlightenment.

Bollocks to that! The body – my body, your body, every body – is beautiful and holy. (Ha ha, yes, I said “holy” – very funny.) It’s an honor and a joy to be human. This body is a brief blessing from the gods. In this view, normal human activities such as eating and sex are not merely fun, but sacred.

Sadly, many of us are disconnected from our bodies in some shape or form. In my case, I often criticize myself for not being perfectly slim and muscled. (I do loves me some vegan cupcakes.) More often than that, I’m cerebral: I walk around with my presence completely in my head, lost in whatever thoughts happen to be possessing me at the time, blissfully unaware that I even have a body.

There are a lot of spiritual practices that can help us counter this discomfort or lack of awareness with our bodies. We can take some time each day to be aware of them – to feel ourselves as a fully embodied presence, feel the energy coursing through our arms, our chest, our sexual organs, our limbs, hands, feet. We can be aware of areas where we’re holding onto tension. Forehead, perhaps? Shoulders? A tightness in the chest?

We can give thanks for the food we use to sustain our gift. We can pamper our bodies with a simple but self-indulgent luxury – a long shower, perhaps, or a hot bubble bath. We can enjoy our sexual natures alone, or have sex with our partner, being fully in tune with and appreciative of his or her body while also being fully present in our own.

But perhaps the greatest gift we can give ourselves is to accept our bodies just as they are, right at this moment. To love them unconditionally – whether lean, thin, muscled, average, curvy, or full-bodied. It’s a gift we can freely give to others, too: to love them just as they are, for who they are – not for whom we believe they ought to become.

Our culture, as demonstrated by the Oscars, purports to celebrate the body. What it celebrates is a stereotype. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing if we truly celebrated this precious human form?

I’ve decided to get personal. Again.

I haven’t engaged in much personal or “memoir” blogging lately. Which is odd, because when I initially started blogging, I wrote a personal blog to support a memoir I was shopping around. (To answer the unasked question: 18 rejections. Yeah…ouch) I’ve avoided talking about myself because…oh, hell, many reasons. Some legit, some lame. It brings up feelings of arrogance and self-centeredness (legit). It leaves me feeling exposed (laaaaame).

On the other hand, it’s cheap and easy to talk in general terms about spirituality without sharing how these ideas and practices help me in my own struggles. And sharing our mutual struggles makes it easier for us to identify and empathize with one another.

A friend came to me recently. She was struggling with being recently single, and didn’t know what to do with these feelings of loneliness and self-doubt that kept cresting like waves and bashing into her. Being in the same boat myself, I knew exactly what she was talking about – and I told her so.

Sharing these feelings with someone was like being stranded on a remote island for two months, and suddenly discovering a fellow refugee on the far side. We were both so relieved to discover that we weren’t freaks or losers. We were both wrestling with this overblown fear that we had royally fucked everything up, and were henceforth condemned to die alone. But that’s all it was. A fear. An idea. It wasn’t reality. Speaking it out loud helped rob it of its power, certainly. Knowing another person felt it as well depleted it of whatever oxygen remained in its lungs.

Funny how that works.

The basic message of Buddhism is that we constantly confuse what we think and believe with what’s real. What’s real is this pure moment, right here, right now. Our ideas seem so powerful whenever they hook us. Then we meet someone who’s similarly hooked, and we can see that these ideas are nothing more than the stupid shit our brains conjure out of fear, emptiness, or just sheer boredom.

Bottom line, all three of you reading this should expect me to get a little more personal on occasion. My hope is that someone, somewhere out there, reads one of these posts and says, “Yeah, that’s me, I do that, too” – and realizes that, when it comes down to it, we’re all stranded on the same island.

Diana Butler Bass has a doozy of an article on Huffington Post which, at first glance, is about the continued decline of American Protestant and Catholic churches. But Bass has a larger, positive point: that ol’ time religion is giving way to a non-authoritarian approach to faith.

This is my favorite bit from the article:

“Spiritual and religious” expresses a grassroots desire for new kinds of faith communities, where institutional structures do not inhibit or impede one’s relationship with God or neighbor. Americans are searching for churches — and temples, synagogues, and mosques — that are not caught up in political intrigue, rigid rules and prohibitions, institutional maintenance, unresponsive authorities, and inflexible dogma but instead offer pathways of life-giving spiritual experience, connection, meaning, vocation, and doing justice in the world. Americans are not rejecting faith — they are, however, rejecting self-serving religious institutions.

Can I get a “Blessed Be”? (An “Amen” will work, too.)

Joe Perez offers his two cents for what this means for a new “World spirituality”. I’m more interested in what this means for religious diversity, and for the freedom that this affords individual practitioners. This shift away from hierarchical, power-over religious structures signals a new model of “religion” in which “going to church/temple/zendo/the open grove” doesn’t mean receiving The Holy Word, but sharing part of one’s spiritual practice with like-minded practitioners.

I had the good fortune of taking my kids last week to Gaia’s Temple in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle. The Temple, which has been in operation for over a decade, welcomes people of all genders, races, and sexual orientations to come once a month and celebrate the Divine Feminine through song, meditation, and discussion. I had never even knew it existed until a friend told me about it.

Oh, what I’d been missing. My younger kids liked it. My (Pagan) teen son loved it. I loved it. I have no clue what most of the 100+ people in attendance that Sunday believed, or how they practiced on their own time. What mattered is that I could sit with them, chant with them, ground myself in Earth energy with them, and celebrate the turning of the Wheel with them.

And that, to me, is the true meaning of “religion” – from the Latin religare, “to bind together”. I felt this binding together at Gaia’s Temple. I feel it when I practice zazen with my fellow Buddhists. Rather than being bound by doctrine, we come together around a few principle ideas or practices that are sacred to us. The officiants of such practices are highly esteemed in the community, and may even have special recognitions bestowed upon them. But they’re not there, generally, to chastise us for our sinful ways. They lead practice. They instruct gently. They remind us, over and over again, to come back to who we really are.

Is this type of religious practice on the rise? I sure as hell hope so. Despite our technological prowess and burgeoning wealth, our planet and its denizens suffer immensely. It’s going to take a living, breathing spiritual practice – and not mere religious dogma – to wake us out of our slumber.