Something very interesting is happening: Every time I share something spiritual I feel as if I need to turn around and share something more Asperger-y or logical.
I am afraid to ostracize or hurt someone based on my own spiritual beliefs.
And I am afraid to offend.
I have reached a place, as of late, (a very recent as of late), in wherein I am less and less inclined to want to explain or justify my actions; not because I am angry or righteous, or think I have all the answers, but simply because I have gained a greater acceptance of self and my path.
Still, there remains a definite part of self that wishes to compile a list of reasons why I am spiritual and why I choose to share my spirituality.
It doesn’t feel ego-based, this need to explain, but more spirit-based, like a deeper region wanting to pour out.
I quarrel inside my own mind, because I don’t want my writings here (on this blog) to turn into a means of spiritual prophecy and discussion, while at the same time I do not want to deny any parts of emerging self.
I quarrel inside my own mind, because I know there is a sector of the world that still doubts there is a source or higher-self, and that when one mentions such a truth (individualized truth as it be), that walls and barriers are immediately shot up.
My intention is not to inject religious banter or rhetoric into anyone, but to express a part of my self, or soul, as you will. My intention is not to ever push my beliefs on anyone, as I know the harm this type of action can cause, and the hypocrisy involving aspects of judgment that occurs.
I am, for the most part, not a judgmental person, and thusly, I think it is improbable I could ever be a Thumper for Jesus; but quite frankly, I think that Jesus never meant for souls to be reached through blatant and oppressive means, and that He himself would be saddened and ill-stricken by the greed and want that oozes out of those that once call themselves “ordained by God.”
Of course, when it comes to certain topics, say: religion, politics, and life-philosophy, and heck, even autism, some people become adamantly vigilant and judgmental.
I think this is where there is a definite barrier between how I think and view life, and how others think and view life. Well, at least mainstream others.
For instance, I can be watching a show where terrible abuse or violence is happening, and even though I feel empathy for the victim, I do not feel judgment towards the persecutor.
I have tried. I cannot.
And it’s not that I haven’t been a victim of others’ hands myself. If I feel anything at all towards the one deemed the “wrong doer,” whether in fictional television or my own real life, it is a strong compassion for the “wrong doer” and state of affairs in his or her life that lead to this person to do said acts.
Of course, I recognize injustice and cruelty, and will make a stand in the best way I can to protect those in harm. In fact, cruelty is the reason I don’t eat meat. However, in finding the exact place to point the finger at the wrong doer is where I stray.
Take the meat industry for instance. Do I blame the breeder, the butcher, the grocery store, the restaurant, the consumer? Who is more to blame or less to blame? And how do I draw the line or hold the scale? And whose job is it to judge and determine the degree of right or wrong? For I certainly don’t think it’s mine.
This can get me into trouble sometimes, even in my marriage. Just tonight we were watching a show that depicted a country that still treats women as subordinates. My husband voiced his opinion. I could not concur. I explained that I don’t feel judgment, at least not the adamant-I-am-right type of judgment. I see too many variables, too many strings leading to other strings of theory and plausible cause. I see all the suffering in the world, in our own community and country, and I think: How do I even begin to choose which suffering is to a greater or lesser degree
And I think: How can one be blamed for something that he is taught since birth? Or another blamed for a deficit of mind or strangling of spirit?
Again, this isn’t to say I am heartless; I feel deeply for the suffering of all, and wish to lift this pain, and take it upon myself to make a difference in a way that feels natural to me. And it isn’t to say I don’t see the necessity of some having a burning, hot passion for change, for without such temperaments, change would be slow to come, if at all. I am saying I don’t have this in me, whatever this THIS be.
Whether I am right or wrong in my making, I stake no claims. But I know I am built for passive resistance of harmful intention and built to embrace and spread love. I am not built to hate.
To me life is a question without complete answers; and I have found that piling partial answers upon partial answers buries the soul. For me it is easier to give in and give up my quest to the hands of my higher power, than to search for a semblance of justice through the inevitable persecution of some.
In regards to my spirituality, my faith is my rock.
Within my faith, I know I am divine energy.
Through my faith I have been able to remedy much of my past insecurities, and likewise render myself valuable and worthy.
I cannot help but to love myself, for I am the very vessel that love pours through.
This is not to say I love the substance of me, or to indicate a prideful relationship with ego; this is merely to say I love the vessel I be; the holder of the cup, He is someone other than self, as is the substance. So it is not that I love the whole of me, but that I love the part endowed by my maker to be held and poured through.
This has brought me great peace, this acceptance of a part of self touched by divine, for I have suffered with bouts of pride over self, and have begged repeatedly for mercy and relief of self.
Once I determined I wasn’t self-incarnate, but indeed vessel for a higher-purpose, I was able to accept a part of me with adoration, while retaining what I think to be a semblance of humility. Thusly to me, my faith is my slayer of pride, at least the part of pride I am able to release and no longer hold onto.
In addition my faith, explains to me, at least to a vast part of self, that who I am is okay and what is happening is okay.
I believe things happen as they are meant to be. This does not meant if an infant is sick and passes away that I stand and proclaim that all is meant to be, for there is still a degree of suffering that occurs that feels unjust and painfully cruel. Life can be cruel, just as life can be powerfully divine.
But I do agree with the Eastern ancient messages found in the proverbs and folk tales that explain that nothing can be deemed beneficial or bad, because with the passing of time all perceptions of events change.
I am a cup half-full kind of gal; always have been, always will be. There is no way around this. And this, too, to a lesser degree, is why I seek out a higher purpose. For there has to be a higher purpose to substantiate all the suffering in the world, or I simply could not exist one more moment.
I believe, too, in miracles.
I hold onto miracles, like I hold onto destiny, and in turn hold onto faith. I have these three as not my crutches, but my strongholds: the sails that never fade and never tear and move me through the sea of my days.
So where I would like to have my writings, at times, not describe the elements of my faith and belief systems, I think with my extreme, say “pathological,” honesty, that this absence of an aspect of me would be an impossibility.
However, I repeat, I would rather no one think I am trying to push my belief systems onto him or her, as I know the harm and drudgery that such self-serving and righteous indoctrination can hinder.
Yes, I hold Jesus in my heart, but my heart is big and there is room for a lot more company. My Jesus likes company. He likes compassionate souls of all race and creed.
It is mankind that put Jesus asunder and twisted His truth through profiteering, slander, misconduct, greed, and mistranslation of His word. I know this with every bone in my body, and often become disheartened that I live in a time where man has the means to turn the very representation and embodiment of forgiveness and sacrifice into sin, or at least the common understanding of “sin,” as even this word at root has not been accurately transcribed and translated.
And so it is, I share a piece, though a small piece it be, of my thoughts. Not so much to help the reader, but to dispel some my own whispers of mind, the old whispers from long ago, reminding me to be careful and to watch where I step, as the wolves are about. The whispers that would rather me hush than rush to share my truth.
For you see, it isn’t really that I have a choice. I have never had a choice but to be me. The only main difference now is that if and when the whispers resurface I know and recognize that I have a legion of angels at my side.