My Artist's Prayer

I'm still working through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. I actually went back and retraced my steps somewhat, given that a new member joined and was eager to start from the beginning. I was happy to accommodate, if only because I had lost my artistic way somewhere at Chaptuer 6 - abundance. Hmmm...interesting.

So now my local group has dwindled to just a couple of us ~ I attribute the attrition to the fact that it's free, that self-commitment is tough psychological work and that the structure lends itself to working from beginning to end. There are a few newbie members who lurk in the background, happy to associate themselves with the group but leary to come out and give it a try.

This week's chapter is the 7th in the 12 step series - Recovering a Sense of Connection. I have been pondering lately the connection between being left handed and tapping into right brain sensibilities, as it relates to connecting to spirit and higher creativity. And lo and behold, what should I stumble across but a recent comment on my neurotheology post a few months back, in which a keen viral marketer (perhaps the good doctor herself), exhuberantly spouted the wisdom and message of Jill Bolte Taylor's My Stroke of Insight memoir. You can hear her speak here on Ted.com.

Anyways, a couple of chapters back, we were encouraged to write our own Artist's Prayer. I wrote mine a month and half back - just before I fell off the artist's cart.

Here is mine in all its Wordle glory, glory, hallelujah.

Soldier Boy

We had the infamous torturing of Iraqis at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, and now it seems a certain American soldier has stooped to a new all-time low by using the Quran as target practice.

Let's face it, this war has done more to tarnish the name of Americans worldwide than anything else in quite some time. And the simple crux of the matter is this: it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. America is as America does in the world. Did Michelle Obama really say and mean that contentious pride comment in relation to how she feels about her homeland? Of course she did. Ask the average American and they'll guiltily admit the same - they're ashamed even as they cry for their beloved country. And more to the point, they're ashamed that they're less than proud to sport an American flag with the same kind of abandon that they used to on the Fourth of July, because patriotism is carefully seam-stitched into every star and stripe on the flag of this brave and free land.

And while one soldier's actions hardly define the mosaic of thought and ideology in this nation, they do speak volumes about what kind of dangerous frontier games are really being played out there in the killing fields. It is random and calculated acts of stupidity like this that ensure wars get fought again in the next generation, in the interests of redeeming the injustices done to one's forefathers.

In the year following our move to the U.S., I used to blog indignantly and incessantly about politics and religion and what I called the metonymical madness of it all, wherein the part - in this case, the soldier - really does stand for the whole on foreign lands.

Little wonder then that William F. Shulz, a former UU Minister, head of the UUA and past Executive Director of Amnesty International, argues as much in his various books and lectures, most notably when he speaks of defending human rights as a matter of mandatory public relations and crisis management for America.

It is a bitter pill to swallow - this business of admitting that the euphoric balloon has popped which has the hungry, homeless baby now crying in her broken-wheeled stroller. History will not be so kind to America circa new millennium - this much we know to be true.

In the absence of a spoonful of sugar, bitter pills are best administered crushed and crumbled. And perhaps that's as apropos a metaphor as any for the medicinal measures necessary to contend with the fall and some semblance of resurrection of the empire in the decades to come. There is something quite humbling and hopeful about admitting disease and agreeing to rehabilitation treatment and therapy.

That is not to say I hold much hope that U.S. foreign policies will change from a mindset of war and to one of peace and love. I am nothing if not a Pollyanna, it's true; but I do not believe that even Barack Obama can lead us there in the immediate future. Having said that, I do believe hope is indeed audacious and that it is a much higher ground than the cesspool of resignation and the oxymoronic place of uneasy patience the Republicans would have us stand upon.

But I have come to see that just as that lone soldier is representative of his nation, I the Canadian immigrant (deemed a former patriot by my own government and an alien by this New southern Eden, if only because it suits the Bush agenda of tribalism and "othering") have my own civic responsibility as a soon-to-be green card holder to embody the peacekeeping ethos of my people and my own convictions. In matters of God, duty and country, the dictum must still remain, "'This above all, to thine own self be true."

I have done my fair share of soapbox raging against the republic, it's true. I archived no less than 200 pages yesterday - most of them rants of contempt and civil disobedience.

I wore my fury like a badge of honour and took considerable pride in maintaining my stalwart pose - you know the one: arms crossed and wide, Larry Craigian stance in which one foot was in and one foot was outside the cubicle, so to speak.

All that much better to straddle the border, I would think, and not have to be wholly committed to either side. I would watch lips move countless times these past years in performative utterance of the pledge of allegiance and marvel at the truth, lies and videotape of American nationalism, all the while pondering what the average American thinks when they declare this pledge. Do they really mean it? And if so, I'd wonder to myself in those brief moments of time and space where sacred and secular meet in mimetic discord: does a tiny piece of them die a mini-death every time said allegiance to their one God-given nation results in actions antithetical to true liberty and justice?

And yet a funny (funny as in queer, strange, surreal funny) thing has happened these past three years. I have gone from feeling like Jane Goodall - all human and wholly-other as I studied and documented the behaviours and habits of the apes; to feeling a kind of hybridity born of ex-pat assimilation and outsider perspectives. My rant can no longer be the apologetic I Am Canadian rant of Molson Canadian beer fame.

My latest rant is more cross-cultural and North American treaty in flavour - it is the rant of Americanadians who see their respective nations with a kind of displaced and double vision, such that one view informs and strengthens their place as a global citizen and compatriot, rather than tribal member and patriot. It means I am apt to get teary-eyed when singing Oh Canada or The Star Spangled Banner, and that I am equally guilty of suspicion when I hear the war-mongering rhetoric of either nation - be it on CBC or C-Span.

But to be honest, my rant has been fairly non-existent lately. I gave up on following the political race - it's just too long and tedious a marathon and watching the rabbits run countless expensive laps is quite frankly, exhausting, dizzying and disheartening. Especially given that, in Canada, we're accustomed to holding a one-day, not a two-year, federal election.

So I stepped down from the soapbox quite some time ago and retreated to the space of apathy between the dichotomies. I don't wholeheartedly endorse that space either - it's a bit like standing at the centre of the teeter totter. Yet it has done much for quieting my rage and bringing about a certain inner peace of mind. If the only change and world peace I can properly effect now is my own, then I will claim that as success.

Until I see headlines like today's Quran controversy that elicit my knee-jerk rage, once again. Perhaps if we just stopped calling this human thing a race, then the good leaders of the world might see fit to stop competing as though there was actually a finish line with a gold medal to show off.

What's been done in the name of Jesus?
What's been done in the name of Buddha?
What's been done in the name of Islam?
What's been done in the name of man?
What's been done in the name of liberation?
And in the name of civilization?
And in the name of race?
And in the name of peace?

Everybody
Loves to see
Justice done
On somebody else

Can you tell me how much bleeding
It takes to fill a word with meaning?
And how much, how much death
It takes to give a slogan breath?
And how much, how much, how much flame
Gives light to a name
For the hollow darkness
In which nations dress?

Everybody
Loves to see
Justice done
On somebody else

Everybody's seen the things they've seen
We all have to live with what we've been
When they say charity begins at home
They're not just talking about a toilet and a telephone
Got to search the silence of the soul's wild places
For a voice that can cross the spaces
These definitions that we love create --
These names for heaven, hero, tribe and state

Everybody
Loves to see
Justice done
On somebody else

"Justice" - Bruce Cockburn

Born a Tribe, DiaTribe

"We light this chalice to remind ourselves..to take good care of the earth, because it is our home."

UU Chalice Lighting Response

As I look out upon the blanket of snow that is covering these parts of Seattle and the Puget Sound region, it's hard not to think about earth and climate and ecotheology, especially in the penultimate couple of days leading up to Earth Day 2008.

I love how the words above find themselves sandwiched in the space between loving kindness for our fellow brethren on this planet, and living lives of goodness and love. Earth is the sacred ground upon which this covenant finds communitas, just as the wind becomes a Holy Spirit that whispers the Truth and Beauty of these words.

I think there was a huge part of me that resisted the notion of Church for years because no religious institutional construct could ever come close to my ideal of what Church should look like.

The closest I've come to discovering such a sacred place was in the environs of a couple of outdoor chapels in the Kananaskis foothills of the Canadian Rockies. And while I still consider nature to be the greatest of all the houses of worship on this planet ~ from the beaches, the mountains, the meadows, the forest, the rivers, the canyons, the deserts, and the tundra, to the Great Lake and ocean waters; I have since reconciled my notions of holiness relative to place.

I now see nature in more panentheistic terms - that is to say that I recognize that the no-longer sentient and seemingly profane wood in the pews can be a glorious creation of the divine tree from which it came, and that the tranquil, wooded view from our sanctuary is a blessed sight to behold.

Today in church, we sang This Land is Your Land. Long time no sing that classic folk song. We sang a more globally-correct version that mapped a vision "from Patagonia to the Azores Islands," rather than the Americanized one that saw only "from California to New York Island," or even the Canuck version I found myself automatically singing today as befit my own tribal upbringing, which had me imagining the limits of the land "from Bonavista to Vancouver Island."

And it got me wondering: Why are people so scared of having a global vision? What is it about one-world sensibilities that scares so many? And for that matter, why must we be so tribal and totemic and contentious and greedy and wasteful and toxic and so fearful of humane response? We kill our earth softly every day and in doing so, we annihilate pieces of our collective soul like so many piercing pinholes in the fabric of existence.

I don't pray much but when I do, it's inevitably for a quantum shift in Worldview. Not to dissipate plurality but rather to really and truly integrate it in both thought and deed ~ this whole, great big, messy co-existent, web of life. Think about all those sexy in words for a minute...Innovate, Integrate, Involve, Intrigue, Ineffable, Indigo, Infinite, Integral.

We're all in this together. It is your land, my land, and ultimately, no one's land because no single one of us can hold claim and title except through our good deeds. To take good care of the earth, because it is our home.

I am the Earth
And the Earth is me.
Each blade of grass,
Each honey tree,
Each bit of mud,
And stick and stone
Is blood and muscle,
Skin and bone.
And just as I
Need every bit
Of me to make
My body fit,
So Earth needs
Grass and stone and tree
And things that grow here
Naturally.
That's why we
Celebrate this day.
That's why across
The world we say:
As long as life,
As dear, as free,
I am the Earth
And the Earth is me.

Jane Yolen

Desperate Theology

One of my seven deadly TV sins is Desperate Housewives. As I always say, takes one to know one.

A new episode aired this past Sunday and the theme was religion. It was only a matter of time before God came to Wisteria Lane (shoddy ratings owing to viewer attrition, stale satire, a few months long writer's strike, and show hiatus notwithstanding).

God entered stage north when the tornado struck - in all its mysteria, hysteria and Wisteria wonder. That was where we left off a few months ago.

God was asked to stick around awhile or so it might seem. Sunday's episode opens with Lynette deciding - post-cancer and tornado scares - that she wants to start going to church. So she approachs Bree, the lesser of all irreligious evils called friends, and Bree offers to take Lynette, her reluctant couch-slothing, football-loving hubby, and their four amiable children to her Presbyterian Church. All all was well and swell until Lynette dared raise her hand during the sermon to ask the Pastor some pointed questions concerning that oh-so awkward topic of good, God and evil in the Garden of Eden.

Bree was mortified and later suggested that Lynette might be better off with the Unitarians because she heard that with them, "anything goes."

Someone at the Unitarian Universalist Association must have been loving the timing of that desperate if disparaging dialogue, coinciding as it did with the latest UUA ad campaign, which includes full-page ad spreads in Time magazine and the like. Perhaps that line was even bought and paid for in pop culture fashion. If it was, kudos to the UUA for doing some saavy church planting in TVland. Who rightly knows.

Who knows indeed. In fact, who knows might well be the two words I would have chosen, rather than "anything goes," to describe us them thar Unitarians. At the very least, it would have been "seek freely."

On the topic of UUism though, I've found myself not quite evangelizing or spreading the good news of UUs these past couple of weeks, so much as setting the record straight. One young Mom I know wants to find a new church home for her pre-teen daughter ~ one far removed from the church of her childhood. She may indeed find what she's looking for in our humble abode. She's planning to attend an upcoming Coming of Age ceremony to hear how our daring young 13-year olds articulate their own personal theologies. In two words? Damn inspiring.

A few other members that I've not so coincidentally met through my other community spheres lately have validated how important the fourth principle of UUism is to them ("a free and responsible search for truth and meaning") with respect to the religious direction they want for their children.

Another friend of mine I spoke with this week admits that God is Who and what's keeping her from going to Church. The latest UU print ad in Time magazine this month (with the tag line, "Is God keeping you from going to church?") succinctly speaks to her truth.

And as for buddy, my newfound investment advisor who attends a "non-denominational" Christian church here in town...I dunno, I get the impression he was a tad worried about my weird hybrid breed and brand of religion, on account of the dangers of relativism and humanism and the Immanent rather than Transcendent mask we UUs tend to place on God's face. I smile, raise my hands and assure him I'm in no more danger than him on my bike ride through life, even if I do appear to be pedaling a little crazily and yelling, "look ma, no dogma!" at the top of my lungs.

I like that I attend a church where I can freely raise my hand, ask a question of Peter the Pontificator at the Pulpit during service, and know that he'll have no more THE definitive answer than I do. If anything, he knows exactly how to frame the Definitive, Divinitive questions. And to this I give a reverential bow and murmur Amen, brother.

Because what I've noticed is that when God isn't busy hanging out at the busy corner of Sacred and Profane streets, panhandling for us to notice His presence, (or on Wisteria Lane for that matter), he's meditating and chillin' in the Gaps. As a fellow UU friend insists, this is the precious if precarious place upon which we all do well to stand. He calls it "the space within the dichotomies." Now if that's not cosmic, kismet and inane, I don't know what is.

And what do ya know? I've found a couple more two-word phrases to add to my UU description peace pipe and smoke ~ "don't know" and "what is."

In deed and blessed be. :)

1 Artist Way NW

I've started a local 12-chapter "recovery" tribe centered around following the principles and exercises outlined in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way ~ which, at their core, are really spiritual truths, of sorts. The book is 15 years old but the work is timeless, and is primarily focused around treating creativity as a sacred expression.

Keats, Gandhi et al nailed it when they declared Beauty to be Truth and Truth, Beauty. I believe all art great and small to be an expression of the Divine so this book speaks to me.

At its most basic level, the homework entails:

a) Morning Pages (writing 3 pages of stream-of-consciousness journalling first thing each morning;
b) The Artist's Date - making an artist's date with Self once a week to let my inner Artiste out to play
c) Weekly Walks - walking each week, ideally 3 times, to connect and commune with nature.

So we the people begin meeting tonight. I'm mucho excited about finally 're-claiming' my inner-artiste. I've never really allowed myself permission to delve down this road - be it writing, painting, collaging, whatevering. I allowed the spark to be snuffed out by others in grade school and then made up all sorts of excuses why I shouldn't take Art in junior high and high school.

But what I've noticed is that no matter how much I deny it, my inner Creator wants to ooze out anyways. Like when I help the kids with their creative projects for school. Or Halloween costumes. Or whatever.

So tonight marks the beginning of this reclamation process. To be continued...

Googling God

The funny thing about maintaining an eclectic blog/guide to the galaxy and all things cosmic, kismet and inane, (in which I wax and wane profusely on matters ranging from God to food to books to cartoons to cults to politics to life, the universe and everything in between), is that I'm never quite sure who's going to stumble on in.

The Google search strings lately have been wild and wacky, by cracky.

In no particular order, they include:

• 21st century thought on what is sacred and what is profane and where do the two cross (at the corner of Church and State?)
• plymouth rocks (you betcha)
• almsgiving procures for us admission (alrighty almighty then)
• words that follow holy (ummmm, schmidt?)
• mystics and experience of eschatology (I didn't know anyone Googled eschatology - cool)
• blood holier than water (so are donuts)
• golden blood alien (OK, that's creepy)
• Eucharistic holy spells (is that an oxymoron?)
• third degree (a Master Mason wannabe, I'm guessing)
  
• Gumby limbo image (I get tons of hits for Gumby - plymouth rocks but Gumby rules)
• Eckhart Tolle the antichrist (poor Eckhart - he's getting a ton of hits on my site)
• if I should die before I wake words (if you should die before you wake, you probably don't have to worry about setting the alarm anymore)
  
• blood is thicker than water analogy (but water freezes and so might hell by the time you find any answers to that search here at holyschmidtland)
  
• religion and blood to save a life (there but by the grace of God go thee)
• are most holy wars about religion (is this a rhetorical question or would you like me to answer this?)
• red secret cult blood to blood (I'm going to Google this one myself - I'm curious now)
• pilgrimess moves (yup, 22 times in my life to be exact)
• lego workshop Alberta (lego my Vegreville egg-o)
  
• bloody guts (that's what I get for typing graphic words on my blog)
• ancient rivers polluted (and modern ones too)
• controversy of religious symbols in chocolate (a good slogan might be, bite me)
• death and glory and schmitt (not necessarily in that order, I'm sure)
• etymology of word jihad (in a word - struggle)
• questioning the truth of midnight in the garden of good and evil (this site should actually be titled, 'questioning the truth')
• oprah tolle hubbard connection (I had to Google this one myself - go ahead, I dare you)
• the strangling game (OK, that is beyond creepy)
• holy cards, holy.com (all holy roads lead here, I guess)
  
• meaning of burquah (male oppression)
• menstrual mysteries eckhart oprah (say wah?)
  
• jesus tongue (no comment)
• origin of no guts no glory (beats me)
  
• new earth theology theodicy (clearly a scholarly search but if you're looking for the theodicy of Eckhart, start with chapter 4 - Pain Body)
• indian goddess blood sacrifice (I'm never blogging about blood again)
• blood drain acts (I rest my case)
  

And so I guess there's not much else to add, except to ask: What Scooby would do? Because I've always wanted to have that search string in my list of big life questions.

Giving Jesus the Third Degree

The following text, written by Deepak Chopra in December 2005 as a blog posting on the Huffington Post, seems a good synopsis and was likely the creative seed for his latest book, entitled The Third Jesus: The Christ We Cannot Ignore, which hit bookstands this week. Little wonder his Antichrist Google ratings have gone up in recent weeks.

Taking the Bible literally makes no sense to moderate and liberal Christians, and one of the most urgent tenets of literalism, that Jesus will soon return to Earth to render judgment and save the righteous, seems like a fantasy. Secular society has no need for Jesus to return. It leaves each citizen to privately choose a religion, or to not choose one, and all other matters fall outside the realm of faith.

So it came as a shock to secular society when millions of people couldn't take their minds off the return of Jesus, so much so that Judgment Day colors everything else they think about--family, relationships, morals, business, politics. Speaking for myself, I came to terms with this issue in the following way: We are indeed waiting for the return of Jesus, and in this "we" I include those non-Christians who want to live in a tolerant, compassionate relationship with everyone. But if Jesus returns, there are three choices of who he will be.

The first Jesus was historical, a rabbi living in first-century Palestine whose life profoundly changed religious belief in the West. The second Jesus is the core of a religion, which has its particular dogmas, rituals, priests, churches, and scriptures. These two Jesuses are undeniably real, but the second one--the Jesus of organized religion--has been subject to human whim and change. Right now, if you are not a fundamentalist, he seems to have been hijacked in the service of intolerance, bigotry, and war. A religion that began in the name of love has reached almost its exact opposite--not for the first time, of course.

The third Jesus is not rigidly sectarian. He falls into the world tradition of spirituality. This Jesus speaks for peace and love; his morality includes all peoples; his Father is a universal deity. I was well acquainted with the third Jesus as a child in India. I could love and revere him. It never occurred to me that he would ever become an enemy. This Jesus doesn't speak of non-Christians as pagans. He raises human nature to its highest ideal, along with the saints and sages who have guided humanity for centuries.

I don't think that well-intentioned fundamentalists mean to pervert the third Jesus; I suspect they've never heard of him. He has one great disadvantage, however. You can't own him. You can't say "he's all mine and nobody else's." The third Jesus won't work if you need to justify a war, if you need evil enemies, or you want to brand "them" as godless.

Sadly, many fundamentalists need Jesus for all these purposes. So the third Jesus might not return to them, but if Christianity is to survive among moderate and liberal believers, who used to be the mainstream of the religion, won't it take the return of the third Jesus? The first one is long deceased, the second has fallen prey to politics and narrow-mindedness. What alternative is there? Loss of faith and a slide into deeper and deeper meaninglessness. that would be a terrible fate for all of us, not just the Christians.

Hmmm.....what would Jesus think of all this fuss and debate?

Blood, Guts & Glory

I donated blood a week and half ago for the first time ever.

To be honest, I was a tad nervous about doing so, giving my pusillanimity towards needle poking and such. Nothing like a couple of amnios and epidurals to breed an irrational aversion to needles. But phobic apologetics aside, I lived to die another day, although my arm still sports a rash and is sore even today.

Holy Daughter wasn't so sure about this. I'm not certain what she thought said donation meant to my health in the scheme of things - I suspect she assumed my donation was a life & death, quid pro quo economic equation - my pint to help save another life must somehow mean I was risking mine.

She made a point of telling everyone within earshot that day that her Mom had given blood, and she went to great lengths to ensure I was drinking my fair share of water. She also harboured a morbid fascination with wanting all the gory details - did it hurt? did I watch the blood drain out? how much did they take? what colour was the blood? When I told her it was more burgundy- rown than fire engine red, she was completely grossed out.

Bloody. Well. Rite.

In religious terms, blood is like that. Sacred, sacrificial, economic, taboo, impure and infinitely profane. It is the holiest yet potentially, most polluted river of life.

Tertullian said it best in this regard when he declared that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church." In fact, if you look closely at the foundation of every religion, you'll find blood (or the absence of, as in the mythos of virginal birth) to be the very ink stain of the prophets.

Shi'ites flagellate themselves each Feast of Ashoura in bloody commemoration of their holy martyr and great Prophet's grandson, Hussein. Arguably, Jesus the Christ wins poster boy fame for blood sacrifice in religion, in that he is offered up (posthumously) in synocdoche for the sins of humanity. The blood ritual continues today, as Christians partake in communion by drinking the Eucharistic red wine and thus, not figuratively but literally, consuming the transubstantiated blood of Christ.

Sacrificially, bulls, goats and lambs figure prominently in the formation, and indeed, syncretism between ancient Egyptian and Vedic rites and the mystery cults of the Greco-Roman Empire, such as Mithraism, as well as the later pagan, Ancient Israelite, Jewish, Christian, Islamic, and Hindu religions.

The sacrality and profanity of these rites explain, in part, the prohibitions of Acts 15:29, which suggest staying away from food sacrificed to idols, as well as abstaining "from blood." In fact this passage becomes the justification by faith and revelation that JCs will use and cite when they allow their offspring to die rather than undergo a life-saving blood transfusion.

Consider also, Judaism. Jewish dietary laws prohibit the consumption of blood because the life and soul of an animal is believed to be contained in its blood, and also because blood is believed to be the body's polluted rivers, of sorts, which becomes the dumping place for any bacteria, viruses or impurities upon the animal's final moments.

Leviticus 17:14 states ~ "For as for the life of all flesh, its blood is identified with its life. Therefore I said to the sons of Israel, 'You are not to eat the blood of any flesh, for the life of all flesh is its blood; whoever eats it shall be cut off.' The link between myth and ritual here is murky, most especially because this core belief in blood as the life sustainer and more importantly, soul keeper, dates back to those prolific philosophers - Pythagoras and Plato - and their views on the transmigration of souls.

This life sustaining, soul-keeping notion is prevalent in myriad religious worldviews to the extent that blood is both revered and reviled. The Indian goddess, Kali, is renowned for her insatiable appetite for blood, and inspires an almost fanatical blood and fertility cult that continues today, albeit minus the live sacrifices. She is the divine bitch, mother, child, lover and redemptrix.

Blood's fertile and sacral properties are richly entwined in history and etymology, such that links can be found between the ancient Sanskit word for ritual, rtú and the advent of winter as the approaching or 'cooling-off' season of menses. Owing to its fertility links, blood from the womb was thought to have great animating prana or creative, life-force energy, and indeed, it does, for arguably, blood also indirectly spawned the birth of ethnomathematics. Female blood is a prime example of the mysterium tremendum et fascinans phenomena which Otto, Eliade et al allude to, wherein the idea of the holy is a force that is both fearsome and fascinating.

Indeed, in some tribal societies, such as the Kalash Valley peoples of what is now Pakistan, menstruating women are deemed untouchable and are still sequestered away in menstrual huts in moon-phasal fearing fashion. Said impurity and male fear of womanly power lies at the root of most patriarchal, Vedic and axial-age religions - blessings be to Zoroastrianism, the ancient Aryan rulers and countless tribal kings the world over who were responsible for shifting the cult of blood from the macro to the micro.

The fertility cult of blood alive and well in matriarchal/goddess religiosity (theme song: I am Woman, Hear me Roar), with its mythic and universally animistic imaginings, no longer suffices. In its place comes a decidedly more controlled, contested and personal religiosity of blood, wherein blood is no longer sacred so much as profane in theopolitical terms. Blood becomes a theopolitical bath and body works commodity for he-men (theme song: I'm the King of the Castle) in search of divine kingship and immortality.

Such is the lot of woman - the whole mysteriously, bleeding lot of us - misogyny continues to be alive and well, even, or might I suggest, especially today. Of course, modern science paints a different, revisionist canvas, and indeed, so do many resourceful femme artistes, who use menstrual blood as their chosen painting medium, but time will tell how well such things as menstrual stem cells and the bleeding arts are received.

Socio-cultural and gender issues aside, blood continues to be highly symbolic and in many ways, metonymically understood in many cultures.

In Aryan times, the bindi or red tikka mark on the forehead was a ritualized seal of marriage, signifying the newfound chattel status of bride unto husband. A red powder is the modern substitute, as is its more auspicious purposes of luck (warding off evil) and wisdom (tantric/sixth chakra link).

Holy Blood, Holy Grail

Blood is inherently perceived to have this power, which is why it is oft associated with many tribal coming-of-age ceremonies. The memetics of blood ceremonies find their way from occult practices and necromancy to modern Western schoolyards, with pinky swearing and cross my heart performative utterances. I defy most adults of a certain age to deny having performed a secret blood brother or sister ceremony with a best friend circa 60s and 70s or neighboring decades pre/post to that.

The magic and mystique of blood as the great alchemical potion and holy grail elixir, is a cup that runneth over into literature and language, thanks to Dracula lit and lore. Leeches (blood suckers) have come to symbolize a lowly-life form, with vampires at the helm of the food chain; just as crimson/red and passion/heat and murder/redemption have their place as symbolic stand-ins for poetry, prose and post-modern lyricism, where loves often lies bleeding on Sunday bloody Sunday.

Blood is to artery as branch is to tree. It connotes family ties and loyalty because it's "thicker than water," it is the remains of the day in times of sport, war, battle and gruesome death; it suggests toil and sacrifice along with its other bodily fluid friends - sweat and tears, it hints at fear when mixed with chill, it is linked to money, thirst and lust; and it has entailed much medical letting in past centuries, as doctors sought to temper human dis-eases and ailments. Interestingly, in Ayurvedic terms, bloodletting is called rakta moksha (rakta means blood and moksha means spiritual liberation in Sanskrit).

And, in that it is the last of the four humours, blood comes to be associated with the season of spring, sensing perceiver temperament (artisan), the liver as organ, warm and moist as qualities and courage, hope and amour as ancient characteristics.

As a religious archetype, however, blood is incestuously entwined in history. One hears talk of blood in relation to one religion or another, particularly in recent history, wherein the battle for God is as contentious as ever in history. I have fundamentalist friends and relatives who like to grant Islam with the dubious honour Islam of being the religion of blood (and I do not mean blood in prophetic lineage terms), yet obviously, all religions may lay claim to said fame.

From time immemorial, Mircae Eliade insists religious (wo)man has been participating in the "primordial divine act" of blood sacrifice in imitatio dei, by reenacting the cosmogonic and mythic birth of humanity ~ one that more often than not cross-culturally, entailed creation by sacrifice or dismemberment within a culture.

Arguably, blood continues to be a mainstay typology, mythically and ritualistically speaking; and if this ongoing clash of religious civilizations we bear witness to is any indication, I would venture to guess it will remain so for some time to kingdom come, thy will be done.

On earth as it is in heaven, or so our hierophanic imaginings would have it.

"My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true. The intellect is only a bit and a bridle."
D.H. Lawrence

Eve, Prey, Loaf: In Defense of Religious Hedonism

I was reading The Revealer this morning, as per my daily bread, and I caught paused to read this snippet, which contains this bit of cynicism and that snide commentary on the blindness of faith.

I snickered at the last link, because she expresses doubt that anyone who reads Christopher Hitchens would never read Eat, Pray, Love. Ummm, forgive me, Calahan for I have sinned - I consumed and loved both and lived to tell of it.

To be fair, I feel bad for any author such as Gilbert, who registers their blip in the Opracentric solar system, because it invariably means they start orbiting around her and becoming subject to the perils of shooting stars, falling meteors, wayward satellites and all other manner of space junk and garbage matter that gets hurled around the galaxy.

I know it's a stretch to feel sorry for someone whose seemingly unassuming memoir gets catapulted to international bestseller lists because it bears the magic O mark, but there is so much bad and ugly that comes with all that good. Namely, the anti-Oprah crowd and the kiss of intellectual death that her recommendations seem to bring.

What can I say? I loved Eat, Pray, Love. I remember closing the book and saying, Amen, sistah. I blogged as much here. Sure, she comes across as narcissistic (but what memoirist doesn't), she doesn't take herself too seriously, she writes a smarter breed of chick lit than the coffee and bonbons variety, she admits the ashram was cult-like, and moreover, she brings us a book that is apropos of 21st century mid-life female crisis and the dawning of this post-new age of Aquarius ~ where spiritual travel and messy life journeys are definitely where it's at.

I was reading another spiritual memoir (Swinging on the Garden Gate) at the same time, which was way better written, and in many ways, more deserving of accolades and praise. Eat, Pray, Love was the lighter read, to be sure, and a fun and voyeuristic glimpse into another person's religiosity - imperfections, blemishes and all. Was it the best book I ever read? No. But of course, the O stamp sets up huge expectations.

There are those who will go out of their way to avoid reading a book on the Oprah Book Club list and that's fair. But as with all matters of excess, anything labelled Oprah must be taken with a few grains of salt (adding a lemon wedge and a shot of tequila doesn't hurt either). Obviously. We need only think James Frey here to realize that.

Yet heaps of titles included in the OBC bookshelves are indeed worthy of their placement there. Night by Eli Wiesel is stunning, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry is absolutely one of the best books I've ever read, and others like Anna Karenina....well, what can I say except to espouse that classic literature of that sort looks almost tainted and tacky sporting the O stamp on its cover. Of course, nepotism is alive and well with the likes of Toni Morrison, Sidney Poitier, and Bill Cosby in the group, however, such is the reality of book clubs. They are not always very democratic and holistic in their selections.

But back to the crux of the matter.

Does Oprah lean new-agey? Well duhhh. You could clearly see the spiritual evolution of Oprah, circa brand new millennium, back when she first had Gary Zukav appear on her show. His brand of metaphysics was clearly eye-opening for her, and it was apparent this was the first time she had given serious thought to the metaphysics behind the much-bantered mind, body, spirit buzz she was so fond of espousing. Since then, we've seen a parade of spiritual gurus and self-help experts grace and dance upon her couch, to the extent that her programming underwent a conscious shift to all things spiritually woo-woo and feel good.


I thought it might have culminated last year when she hurled The Secret into the cataclysmic nethers of outerspace - a rightful place in many ways, if only because Rhonda Byrne's writing was lame at best, and her ideas but a sad, and in many ways, erroneous carbon copy of others. Suffice to say, the secret wasn't a secret, except to the 'unenlightened,' I suppose.

Which is where Oprah enters, lowered on the wings of her OWN angel network unto her church stage, front and centre beneath her pulpit, to preach to the unconverted. I'm kind of surprised the apocalyptic types haven't latched onto her as the new anti-Christina, but alas, a quick Google search reveals they have. A long time ago. A host of blogs and sites are dedicated to warning the masses of her Satanic ways. I won't link them here for fear I might elicit the wrath of O.com, inc. onto the sanctity of my holy place in schmidtland.

Her latest book club pick, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose by Eckhart Tolle, a fellow Canuck, may well be the spark that ignites the Christian soldiers methinks. Oprah will be teaching an online class with Eckhart in order to enlighten her followers of this new world order.

Having said all that, I'll read Eckhart's new book, if only because I think he disseminates complex Buddhist thought in an engaging and accessible way. And because curiosity killed the cat and I once owned cats.

But if, as Maureen Callahan-channelling-Hitchens asserts, this reeks of "Western fetishization of Eastern thought and culture," then so be it.

'Kool-Aid' kumbaya may seem kooky and krazy to my acquainted brethren, the Über-secular humanists of the world (with whom I sometimes flirt, God have mercy on my soul), but gene counting isn't exactly a multi-sensory festivity we're apt to confess we wish we had done more of upon our deathbed.

I say bring on the big plate of linguine, sprinkle it with a liberal dose of Sanskrit chanting, wash it down with a bottle of two of Chianti and chase it with a shot of carpe diem and a late night snifter of amore. It'll probably cause a cosmic burp or two but what the heck? When we sit down in the penultimate moments of our life to watch that epic cinematic adventure movie called This is Your Life, we might as well make sure there's some PG-13 and R-rated, popcorn worthy moments.

And don't forget the extra butter and salt, and wait a minute: did someone say salt? You might as well bring on the tequila, too, then. And since this is the final shot, make sure it's the good stuff when you slap life's ass and declare in your best Chaucerian accent that, "upon the rump, God save you, I am done!"

Because let's face it: pasta, puja and punta dancing, not unlike their distant cousin, beer, are indeed theological proof that "God loves us and wants us to be happy," or thus spoke Benjamin Franklin.

Amen, brother Ben. Pass the communion wine. I'll drink to that.

In Memoriam

Death is such a dirty, rotten thief and scoundrel - sculking around to steal those who live liveliest, and who have so very much to lose. Like Claudia, who leaves a devoted husband and two children to mourn her.

I just caught word an hour ago that Claudia passed away yesterday. I feel immensely sad.

I had just been asking my friend about her on Tuesday. My friend called her immediately after we hung up but apparently there was no answer. Said friend feels terrible that she got caught up in her own busy life this past month. And I feel that ache of regret at not having performed a random act of kindness for virtual strangers, as they juggled Ricardo's travel, her sons' soccer, plus Claudia's hospice and homecare scheduling challenges.

You see, Claudia and I were barely acquainted - she was the friend of a friend, as was her son and Holy Son - who also share a mutual close friend. I would see her at church only occasionally because she tended to go to the earlier service. The last time I saw her, she was sitting in front of me in church during the later service, flanked on either side by her two young boys. She seemed well enough, but cancer is an evil shapeshifter like that.

Despite or more to the point, because I barely knew her, I found myself quietly lurking on Ricardo's blog - sharing vicariously in the pain and suffering of her illness and his narrative, which he so eloquently and honestly revealed to the world. And though she never knew, she touched my life. Her courage and strength as a wife and mother, in the face of terminal cancer, both terrified and inspired me.

I cannot even begin to imagine how she was able to project such grace, resolve and what looked suspiciously like a whole lot of, but was likely the mask of eventual acceptance born of serenity prayer embodiment. Ultimately, she did wage a pugnacious and feisty battle against the cancer. She beat the odds and borrowed a handful more days and weeks cards than Death and Fate originally dealt her.

And so in honour of Claudia's tenacity and timeless Spirit, I will place a small inukshuk in the memorial garden at church this Sunday. And while it may sound cheesy and perhaps sacrilegious, I'm going to finally get around to going to see The Bucket List this weekend and updating and notarizing our bloody will, which hasn't been touched since before the birth of my daughter. Death has a way of doing that - sounding that universal gong to get your schmidt together and live large, because life, she is is short-statured.

Claudia's service isn't until next Saturday - Holy Son and I will attend. It will be our first UU memorial service and a huge departure from the last service we attended three years back - which was Russian Orthodox and more than a little glossolalic and unorthodox sounding to this Orthodox tradition neophyte.

I anticipate next weekend's service being a beautiful tribute to her life and spirit. As below, so above.