Guilt for Crying

In Meeting this morning I burst into tears, and spent most of the Meeting crying.

The husband of the head librarian where I work was diagnosed with leukemia last week. Of the four kinds, his was the most likely to steady, or go into remission. On Friday, though, he contracted a secondary infection; Saturday morning, he died.

I'm not particularly close to my head librarian; I never met her husband. For some reason, though, this news has been hitting me pretty hard and I can't figure out why that is. So this morning, when a gentleman in Meeting shared about the death of a homeless individual and asked us to hold that person in the light, I started to crack. Even though others shared about more 'positive', uplifting topics later, I couldn't keep myself from crying.

Thing is, though: it felt really damned good to cry. And in my head there was some voice saying "Good, good, get in touch with that sadness", because I happen to have an enormously difficult time crying about anything. Like, I couldn't squeeze a tear if you shot my dog in front of me. It's not that I don't want to cry, it's just that I can't do it.

But I felt - feel - guilty as hell for that. Because these are awful circumstances, and there I was, capitalizing on the opportunity to get in touch with my own feelings of sadness. I'd feel worse if I actually did it willingly; the fact that the tears came unbidden helps.

I'm amazed by emotions, really. I don't understand them in the slightest.

A Walk Down Identity Lane

Lately I've been asking myself questions about identity: can I call myself as 'ashiq of the Bektashi path, even though my connection with the tariqa is just at the beginning? Could I, equally, apply for membership to the Religious Society of Friends and call myself a Quaker, even if my personal beliefs are not traditionally Christian? Would that even be appropriate, or would I be diminishing the value of Friends' Christian heritage and equally diluting my own Bektashi faith? Could I say that "There is one, even Haji Bektash, who can speak to my condition"? Can I bear witness to the Peace testimony while remaining affiliated with the official order of the Jannisaries (even if they dispersed in 1826)?

The question has been reflected in my, er, reflection up a blog post about koans on a 'conservative' Quaker blog, as well as questions raised in Cat Chapin-Bishop's post on what it means to be a Christian in her, er, also Quaker (but from a pagan point-of-view) blog.

In the former, the blog-author questions the utility of words used by other Friends that are outside the purview of Quakerism, especially when terms exist within Quakerism that convey the idea. Can one speak of a 'Christian koan', for instance?

My gut feeling was to jump in with 'Well sure you can', but as I turned the idea over in my head I realized there was a problem. Beyond the idea of co-optation and cultural imperialism that would represent, it's a misuse of the term 'koan', which is deeply embedded in Zen Buddhism and, in fact, represents a particular outgrowth of the pairing of Yogacara and Madhyamika within Zen thinking. Trying to divorce the idea from that background cheapens it, makes it senseless, in the same way that 'meditation for relaxation' is like using a diamond-tipped saw-blade to slice bread. Or...

... New Age pseudoscience. Like: What the Bleep Do We Know?, The Secret, or Masaru Emoto's water crystal 'work', including the idea that Eastern mysticism somehow 'explains' quantum physics, or at least that they draw the same conclusions. To me, this is equally - if not more - insidious than meditation for relaxation; it's backdoor Creation Science, only because it's 'Eastern' and 'mystical', which somehow makes it OK. The Vedas, I am sorry, are no more scientifically valid than Genesis.

The great human tendency is to try to unite disparate pieces into a consistent whole. The desire for unity, cohesion, is a good thing: I do not mean to denounce it, but instead suggest that believing there is a connection between two disparate things does not mean that such a connection exists.

Which presents a certain problem, or at least a certain tension, when it comes to dual membership in religious bodies, which is what the latter blog post seems to be about (to me).

Can one be, as it were, a 'Christian pagan', or a 'Pagan christian'? Being neither myself, I can't speak about such a question with experience. So instead, I ask myself the question of whether I can be a 'Muslim christian' or a 'Christian muslim'.

The short answer - the answer the beloved Prophet, peace and blessing upon him and his family, would most likely give - is that the two are in fact the same. A true Muslim is really a true Christian, and vice versa. The Qur'an, which as a Muslim I take to be the Word of God (in the same way a Johannine Christian takes Jesus, peace be upon him, as the Word of God), says:

2:62

إِنَّ الَّذِينَ آمَنُواْ وَالَّذِينَ هَادُواْ وَالنَّصَارَى وَالصَّابِئِينَ مَنْ آمَنَ بِاللَّهِ وَالْيَوْمِ الآخِرِ وَعَمِلَ صَالِحاً فَلَهُمْ أَجْرُهُمْ عِندَ رَبِّهِمْ وَلاَ خَوْفٌ عَلَيْهِمْ وَلاَ هُمْ يَحْزَنُونَ

"Inna allatheena amanoo waallatheena hadoo waalnnasara waalssabieena man amana biAllahi waalyawmi alakhiri waAAamila salihan falahum ajruhum AAinda rabbihim wala khawfun AAalayhim wala hum yahzanoona"

"Those who believe - and those who follow the Jewish, [or] the Christians [or] the Sabians - who[ever] believes in God and the Last Day, and does good, shall be rewarded by their Sustainer: no fear shall overcome them, nor will they grieve."

But such universalism seems to fall into the same trap described above; also, taking this particular ayah (verse) of the Qur'an out of the context of the entire Qur'anic message would belittle or completely ignore much more numerous Qur'anic ayat which serve as polemic against Judaic and Christian doctrine, such as excluse salvation in Judaic doctrine and tripartite Godhead and the theory of incarnation in the Christian.

In other words, by saying that Christian and Muslim are, in fact, interchangeable terms, then neither have any real meaning. They become empty, hollow concepts. Which would seem to render the idea of a 'Bektashi Quaker' or 'Quaker Bektashi' meaningless as well, doing disservice, ultimately, to both.

That led me to another question. I identify myself as an 'ashiq of the Bektashi tariqa; the 'definition' of an 'ashiq, however, is broad. According to J.K. Birge in his The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, an 'ashiq "... is attracted by and feels a certain loyalty to Bektashi principles and practice but who has not actually taken the nasip [sic]". (The nasip is formal initiation)

Such a definition is pretty wildly open; in fact, it felt too open for my tastes. By such a definition, it would seem, anyone could consider themselves an 'ashiq, even if that person were not Shi'i, nor Muslim, nor even a monotheist, nor even a theist! How in the world could that make sense?

I took the question to some Bektashiyya I know. Could one speak of a pagan 'ashiq? The reply I got:

Brother- the answer to your question is most certainly "Yes". All "Ashik" really means is "Lover"- in this case of the human orientated and liberal outlook- as well as deep mysticism - of Hunkar Haji Bektash Veli. We revere all truths of all religions and philosophies. Anyone who fixes their belief has put the Truth (Hakkikat) in a little box of their own imagination. They can never directly see the truth..Mohammed said-"Those who are blind in this world will be blind in the next." & " Seek knowledge, even in China". Look up al Khidr a.k.a. hidir a.k.a. hizir to see that a knowledge exists outsıde of any holy book (of pagan roots probably.) outside of all prophecy.

Not precisely the sort of wanted, if I'm to be honest. My affiliation with Bektashism is incredibly precious to me; it is where all the crazy mixed-up notions and beliefs I hold in my head and heart finally feel as if they have found expression. It feels as if I finally have not only a name to give to that inchoate mess, but an identity, and with that, a path and a community. It's not something I want to 'share' with anybody and everybody who, on a whim, affirms an affiliation like some Spiritual Scout merit badge. I feel like that cheapens something incredibly precious to me. How dare they!

Looking at that, then, I can see from where fear and discomfort with universalism comes. You've found something deeply precious to you; perhaps you don't even mind sharing it; but if you're going to share it, you want to set rules and limitations on what can be done with your precious.

I've cautioned against just that to those who see me as their teacher. I tell them that if they're going to give something, anything, to somebody else, they cannot set limitations. You don't 'give' expecting something in return: that's an exchange, a contractual transaction, an economic interaction. It implies that: idem, if the party of the second part should fail to comply with the terms of the transaction as stipulated by the party of the first part, then the party of the first part has recourse to redress of said grievance with the party of the second part. Such transactions have their place in the world, but they are not conducive to fostering a loving relationship between people.

... And, of course, there's the rub. Love.

Because in a relationship predicated upon love, such as that which exists between God and humankind, the fundamental principle is that of giving wildly without thought of return. God gives to us... well, this: the incredible and majestic universe, and furthermore to each of us individually this precious life, without any desire for return.

On our end, we have the choice of giving what we have to God. Doing so is its own reward, as the reward of love is the happiness of the beloved, and nothing more.

Now, if I really believe what I believe - that there is 'that of God' in everyone, to phrase it Quakerly; or, that God is expressed through everyone, to phrase it (clumsily) in a Bektashian sense - then in order to be an 'ashiq (meaning 'lover', you'll remember), I should be willing to give the name and identity of 'ashiq to anyone. Everyone. Being a lover requires loving.

In fact, to refuse to give the name and identity to anyone is to refuse to give to God - to set requirements - which means that I do not love God, which means, really, that I'm not an 'ashiq.

Couched in such a way, that'd mean that I'm definitely not an 'ashiq right now, since I definitely do not love each and every person as I love God. Which means the whole point is moot.

Because really? It's by doing that one is. Not vice versa.

A Silly Goofball Pome

From the tongues of children
to the wombs of mothers,
from the eyes of lovers clasping hold
to the smiles of friends:
I find my home.
in the four books,
the 124,000 blessed ones,
the heart of the Seal,
the soul of the lion
the five, the twelve, the forty...
by justice shall ye know me,
in laughter do I find voice;
be still, and know my name is
Love.

My 'Christocentric' Identity

I have a confession to make: I'm afraid of my Meeting.

I've received a warm reception in Hartford Monthly Meeting, and I get a little thrill every time I park outside, early, to drink my coffee. The normal amused smirk on my face turns something beatific when I get to sit in silent dhikrAllah (that is, Remembrance of God) surrounded by others doing likewise. But I'm afear'd, often, of speaking with others, spending time around them for any definite period.

Some of that is a question of diversity: I'm the youngest (of the adults) sitting in Meeting. Always. While I'm remiss to blame a lack of youthful vitality for my personal reticence, there's a certain feeling of being of the wrong age-group to find social cohesion. Part of my decision to regularly attend Meeting was, in part, due to the hope of finding people of a similar age engaged in spirituality of a similar flavor to my own; and while I doubt my ability to find many youthful Bektashis worldwide, let alone in Connecticut, I felt more confident of finding some Quaker youth locally. Guess not.

Secondly, the WASPishness, generally, of the Meeting: all-white, dominantly Anglo, and, er, Protestant by definition. Again, I'm remiss to blame ethnic centrality to my uncomfortable nature (especially given that I'm a rich white educated heterosexual American first-born male), but I do feel conscious of a lack of diversity in the group which serves to make me feel very, very white. Odd how white people make me feel more white than non-whites. Huh. Anyway...

... but the reason I feel especially out of place is the fact that I'm not actually Christian. I'm an Ithna'ashari Shi'i Bektashi Muslim.

So what am I doing in a Quaker meeting? Well, the reasons given above: feeling a need for spiritual community, folks with like-values and a similar way-of-life. I ended up deciding upon a Quaker meeting at least in part because of their theological liberality as well as - for me the biggest draw - corporate silence. I liked the idea, and ended up loving the practice, of sitting with other people and not talking. Or not much talking. The various Quaker testimonies served only to cement things for me.

Never-the-less, I do feel an intruder, someone spying on and/or stealing someone else's home, society, culture. The result of that is an ongoing personal fantasy, in which I am called upon to demonstrate why I should be allowed to become member of the the Religious Society of Friends. It's not a grand fantasy; it's not a fantasy in which I stand before, say, Yearly Meeting and am called upon to defend my position, but it is a fantasy in which I am called to do so in front of Monthly Meeting, at least, and of course involves some grand speech and ministering, during which I state my creed, as best I know it: the short poetry by Yunus Emre to the right

Mystic is what they call me;

Hate, my only enemy.

I harbor a grudge against none:

to me, the whole world is One.

Such a credo (or more appropriately, aspiration, since I do not dare to claim to live up to such sentiment fully) is of course the basis of my path, my tariqa, but also the path of Jesus, I should think.

Like most Muslims, of course, I would claim that Jesus was a prophet of God; I would also say that he was the 'Spirit of God', the RuhAllah, as the Qur'an states unequivocally. I challenge the idea of a virgin birth, though, as well as the other miracle stories: I see them as allegory and metaphor, symbols of deeper spiritual realities. I would also challenge a belief that Jesus was God exclusively; I wouldn't deny him divinity, but I would deny Jesus was, is, and will be the sole human manifestation of the divinity, or that he might claim the totality of the Divine expression (there is more to God than His form in the world, exalted is He above all we might ascribe to Him).

In other words, Jesus was a teacher, neither the first nor the last, but an important one none-the-less.

I would argue, then, that what was important was not who Jesus was, but rather how he was, because while we can never really know what it was like to be Jesus, certainly we can attempt to act in the way he acted and espoused in order to what that is like.

My understanding - though I admit it could be wrong - is that this was part of the original design of Quakerism, the various testimonies, the core values of this quiet but active corner of Christianity. I know, certainly, that such was and is the path of the Pir of my order, Haji Bektash Veli, and the quiet but active corner of my Muslim faith. In this, we share the same values and even beliefs, to a certain degree.

These are my 'Christocentric' credentials.

I do not want or wish for controversy; my sole desire is to live, worship and serve amongst a community of fellows aspiring to the same calling.

Am I welcome still? Probably; at least by some, I think I would be welcome. But fear still sits inside, the fear of not being allowed a place at the table, fear of being the Outsider all over again.

All I can do, really, is to sit in and befriend that fear, until it changes - like all other fears - into a palpable excitement. Then, maybe, I will find what I seek.

Meaning, Faith, and the Absurdity of Suffering

After being turned away from a potential job yesterday, my mother told me that "these things happen for a reason." Working with people who go through a lot of suffering both vocationally and avocationally, I hear that a lot: things happen for a reason.

I bristle a little bit when people say that, including when I say it myself. There's a somewhat visceral reaction to it, as if something isn't quite right. I've been trying to put my finger on it, and I just recently realized what the problem is.

A while back, I became physically disabled. The event was physically painful and deeply humiliating; it radically altered the way I would live the rest of my life, barring me from some activities which I had come to love deeply, and therefore was emotionally and psychically crippling as well. Faced with these circumstances, I struggled to find some meaning behind it all. I needed to know the reason why I had had so much that I had known and loved snatched away from me. I needed it to have some sort of deeper purpose. I should state unequivocally now that there was a definite and described causal link between my personal actions and the paralysis; actions I had taken quite literally caused the condition which I am now in. I knew this deep down, no matter how much I attempted (and sometimes succeeded) to lie to myself about what happened. Rather, I needed some larger purpose behind it beyond 'learning my lesson'. I desperately wanted the entire experience to mean something larger than simply that.

To me, this is the root of faith, spirituality and religion: searching for meaning or purpose behind suffering. If we are able to ascribe meaning to painful circumstances, it becomes easier to handle, in the same way that we are able to delay receipt of a bit of chocolate now for receipt of a whole bar of chocolate later. The ability to delay reward is, perhaps, a uniquely human trait, a foundation of the capability of our mind to operate within the environment. The same trait, I'm willing to bet, becomes the foundation for religion in that we are able to handle suffering (not receiving chocolate immediately) if we can see useful purpose in it (receiving more chocolate at a later time).

After wrestling with the issue for some time, I eventually came to the unsettling conclusion that there was no deeper purpose or meaning behind my paralysis. As horrific as it was to think this, eventually I realized that it was the explanation that made the most sense. It has been ever since that I have felt uncomfortable when I or other people say "things happen for a reason", or "God works in mysterious ways" and such.

I've been coming to the conclusion that I, at least, usually say these things in order to avoid the lack of control I have over suffering. I'm uncomfortable when people hurt; my gut reaction is to try to address and fix the situation. But in situations where I don't really have control, I try to ascribe meaning to the circumstance, which in some way gets me off the hook by making the suffering seem, in some way, necessary or purposeful.

If I'm honest, though, I realize that suffering actually doesn't serve some purpose. It is meaningless, pointless and absurd. Moreover, as I think about it, to ascribe meaning to certain sufferings is to cheapen and demean that suffering. One wouldn't tell a rape victim that her or his rape "happened for a reason." One wouldn't tell a starving child that they are hungry-to-death "for a reason." Of course there are proximate causes to these things: women are raped at least in part due to societal perceptions of the value of women as human beings. Children starve because of structural socio-economic realities that prevent them from having food. But to tell the rape victim or the starving child that these are the reasons why they suffer is, in effect, to ignore the individual, to treat them as simply the symptom of a large disease.

Interestingly enough, the disease which causes rape or starvation is ignorance of the humanity of other individuals.

What I do know, though, is that it is possible for one to ascribe meaning to suffering post facto. Although suffering may be pointless and meaningless, it is possible for an individual to give that suffering meaning and definition. I've given my own paralysis some sort of meaning and purpose by using it to look at the absurdity and pointlessness of suffering generally, and thereby learn something about how I want to approach others who suffer and treat their own suffering and misery with respect and compassion. But I ascribe that meaning post facto, and I do not believe that such a meaning is inherent and necessarily a part of the paralysis, a priori.

Where is God in all of this? All of the above would appear to challenge the notion that God is either omnipotent or beneficent: the old theodicy problem, yet again. How can there be an all-loving, all-powerful God who allows suffering? The answer most often given to this question, I've found, is that God allows suffering for a reason, for a purpose.

I would disagree. I don't have an answer to why there is suffering in the world if God is omnipotent and beneficent. I hold belief in the primary absurdity of suffering and the omnipotence and beneficence of God in the necessary tension of holding two mutually-exclusive, paradoxical positions. I think such is a necessary condition of religious or spiritual belief, as well.

As far as an answer goes, the best I can manage is to relate a Sufi story:

Once, a dervish was walking along the streets of a town toward the tekke of his shaykh. As he moved down the street, past vendors and princes, his attention was drawn not to the clink of gold coins or the laughing shouts of the merchants, but instead to the silent faces of the hungry orphans, the mumbled pleas for alms from the beggars. As he moved along, he grew sadder and angrier as he watched the rich townsfolk totally ignoring the suffering around them. Finally, at the end of the street he saw a beggar-woman crying over a dead child, and he began to cry and cry and cry, full of fury at the situation. How could God allow this, he thought. How could He let there be so much pain in the world? Bitter, he went into the tekke and sat with his shaykh.

"Shaykhiyy, habibiyy, I passed a beggar woman crying over her dead child on the way to see you. It broke my heart, and I am angry! How could almighty Allah allow this? Why doesn't He do something about it?"

"Oh my dervish... don't you see? He did. He made you cry. Why didn't you do something about it?"

The Missing Class; or, No Country for Honest Men

A few years ago, I moved to Connecticut and began looking for a job. I thought that I would be fairly successful at this; although my work record has some holes, it's not all that bad, and anyway, I'm a college grad and I interview well and I'm a good, hard worker.

It took me 9 months to successfully find work, and only part-time at that. In the intervening period I ended up blowing through most of my savings to survive, to pay back various people and companies for the goods I had stolen from them, and to help out others who were in even more dire straits than I was.

It wasn't that I hadn't spent those nine months furiously searching for employment; on the contrary, I spent those months repeatedly applying to every job that I could find, only I kept being turned down. I was even turned down for a position as a cashier at a local health-foods grocery store.

I'm not sure if I was turned down because of the gaps in my employment history; I can only really guess as to the reasons why I was never hired. If so, I've discovered a little injustice there, namely, that if you don't work for a period of time because of health reasons - which is what led to those employment history gaps - then our society makes it that much harder for you to find gainful employment again. One is being, as it were, shunted off to the margins.

Alternatively, in some cases, it could have been my physical handicap. I might have been able to find physical labor, at the very least, if I weren't physically disabled. Or, I might have been better able to find work if I weren't a student, and thus needed blocks of time free in order to be able to attend class at a minimum.

Regardless, eventually I was able to find part-time employment at the very least; however, shortly thereafter the health insurance I received through school lapsed as I became a part-time student rather than a full-time student. Suddenly I could no longer visit the doctor without paying exorbitant amounts of money, and my medications - one of which is still on-patent - cost $350 a month, a significant portion of my paycheck.

I've taken on other part-time work, since. I have a per diem job which gives me the chance to work now and then, and I have another 'job' which adds minor income to the pot whenever I'm able to get that work. But the search for a full-time job, one with health insurance benefits, goes on.

On the advice of a friend, I applied to a position as a bank teller in a local bank. Part of the application process included a test designed, apparently, to determine one's customer service skills. Having worked in customer service, with some skill, in my previous jobs, I felt that I should know the answers to the questions fairly easily. One question, however, concerned bothering a customer via telephone in order to sell a product: telemarketing. I, like most people, have a visceral reaction to someone bothering me in my home in order to sell me something; it is uncouth, a horrible practice, which has little to do with satisfying the customer than with hoisting petard products upon them. I chose, in the multiple choice options, to make excuses and hang up.

Wrong answer. My application was instantly denied. Not even an interview.

A few days later, swallowing my pride and my honesty, I decided to retake the test and give them the answer that they wanted. Glory of glories, application accepted. Interview scheduled. Yearly check-ups, here I come.

This morning I put on the monkey-suit and headed downtown to the HR department for this bank, in a foul mood. I had, and have, no interest in 'selling products', be they financial service ones or not. I think that viewing business in such a manner dehumanizes the very real practice of providing goods and services to meet peoples needs, rather than generating wants to sell goods and services made in excess: I'm more of a capitalist (in the Adam Smith mold) than a neoliberal consumerist. Supply is meant to follow demand, not the opposite.

Never mind the monkey-suit. I've never been a fan, ever since having to put on tight, uncomfortable, unflattering shirts with iron-starched collars, necktie nooses, tapered-leg pantaloons that only highlight my chicken legs... let me wear something comfortable, something more me instead, for the love of God. Dress casual I can do, and even wear a tie now and then if I feel like it, but don't force me to wear something I despise.

Of course, I try to justify this with the old Quaker testimony of simplicity and plainness, but that's just show. Really, I'm big kid who doesn't want to wear grown-up clothes.

So anyway, I get down to the office, and am told that I should not have come down; in fact, they cannot interview me because I am not allowed to retake their customer-service quiz less than 6 months after I failed it the first time. Thank you very much; you can have your parking ticket validated on the way out.

In some ways - many ways, actually - I'm glad. Me being me, I despised the thought of having to do the sort of work I would have to do in banking, what with numbers and selling things people didn't want and dressing in monkey-suits and similar. A part of me, the part of me that I really like and try to nourish, jumped for joy at not having had to 'sell-out' to the Man. Integrity: saved.

But then: I am still without health insurance, and still quite poor. With several large and major life changes approaching - moving to Hartford, getting married next year, insh'Allah - I rather need steady full-time work. And this job is only meant to be interim work, something to tide me over until I can take on full-time work as a substance-abuse counselor, the real sort of job I've always wanted to do.

Stepping back further, though, getting out of my own shoes for a second, I have to wonder how people in my situation deal with just this sort of thing. I'm spared a great deal of the degradation because I have a car, rich parents who help me out, and I know there are many, many people like me who do not have such safety nets.

I think about what happens to them, and I realize: of course. They are all those people who look so incredibly miserable at their jobs. They're telemarketers, DMV bureaucrats, bank tellers, supermarket clerks... people who work to survive and for little other reason. They're barely able to make ends meet, surviving just above the poverty-line, ineligible for a lot of the programs which are meant to service people in need but unable to purchase or otherwise receive the same benefits those programs are meant to cover for those without them.

It makes you wonder how many are out there, working multiple part-time jobs with all sorts of variable hours during the day which prevents them from seeing their kids, making appointments with doctors or banks (or to find another, better-paying or more full-time job) or other professionals who have the benefit of definite and clear working hours. People without health insurance, frozen in fear of getting sick at all because of the enormous expenses. And because every penny must be saved in order to make various ends meet, they have no room for 'luxury' items, and so probably find credit cards alluring, with their promise of deferred payment, in spite of 25% or more interest rates.

Of course we're a debtor nation.

I suppose none of this seems terribly 'spiritual', and so does not seem as if it belongs in such a blog as this one, but... these are the injustices and inequities I see in our society. Sure, we have a class of terribly poor, but I think much worse is the class of indentured citizens we have created here, able to survive but little else, without any friends or compassion.

There is something rotten to the core about the American Dream.

Power Corrupts...

In my fellowship, as in many spiritual communities, we have a master-disciple relationship going back in chains of lineage to our fellowship's founding members. The teaching of the original 100 are carried on through these lineages, and have reached out to well over two million people across the world.

But as with any society where there is this master-disciple relationship, there are problems.

Master-disciple always implies a power-structure, a relationship based upon a fundamental inequality of power. In spiritual paths, theoretically, it is the duty of the master to raise the disciple up to his or her own station; the goal is to extinguish the power-structure entirely, so that all may be equal. The goods which the master has are to be shared without fearing diminishing returns.

Often as not, however, the master grows accustomed to power; or the disciple becomes accustomed to impotence, so that when the disciple attempts to exert himself or the master attempts to shake loose his needy student, conflict arises.

In the realm of spirituality, this is an incredibly dangerous game. Gurus have used the submission of their students for personal gain; disciples have used gurus as crutches, abject excuses to avoid responsibility for their selves and their lives. The central premise of trying to bring everyone to an equal plane, at least in wisdom, is somehow lost in the shuffle.

In my fellowship, this is often more of a problem than usual, I feel. The central teachings can be transmitted within the space of a few months, weeks, or even days; and once the central teachings are passed along, one is authorized to teach. There is no long period of study; there is no subtle gradation of teaching. One is plunged immediately into the role of teacher while still being... less than perfect, shall we say.

I am an authorized teacher in my fellowship; I have, at least nominally, several students. I know and practice the central teachings, and additionally I have - I think - somewhat extensive knowledge of a variety of teachings from other lineages. I am always seeking to learn more, knowing that the more wisdom I have, the more I can pass on. Maybe some understanding of the Gita will allow me to reach a Hindu better; perhaps I am aware of a Christ-based meditation of Loyola's that will help some Catholic. Although I, personally, considering myself a Sufi of the Bektashi way, I want to be a polyglot of spirituality, able to speak to the need in each person.

In spite of all this, I rarely know what to do. I have knowledge of the basic teachings, and I can pass these along, but there are situations and circumstances that arise in the lives of my students that, quite frankly, I have no experience in handling. I try to listen for some answer within, some knowledge picked by the divinity inside, to give out. Usually, though, I think these are like suggesting band-aids for arterial wounds. Any healing that might come of my suggestions is purely voluntary.

I'm aware of the power dynamic in my relationships, as well. It sits in the background, a temptation ever present, and I fear it. There are times when it seems to take over, when I seem to think that I know what my student really should do. Other times it's easier to acknowledge that at best my answers are pathetic.

I am no guru.

And in fact, I dread and loathe the responsibility. The price of receiving the teachings, I was told, was that I teach them to still others; but now, having the teachings, the last thing I want is to teach. The lives of my students always strike me as being so infinitely and unnecessarily complex, such a mess of misunderstanding and petty feeling, that I don't understand the purpose of the great majority of their thoughts and emotions. I wonder why they willingly make such heavy-going of things.

My problem is that I want a teacher of my own to be able to ask all these questions, someone removed and apart, a person I feel I can trust. I don't trust even my own teacher, though. We've grown apart over time; I feel like there is less to share with him, fewer questions. And I've come to see, more and more, his faults rather than his wisdom. The power dynamic in our own relationship has come to seem more and more burdensome. I distrust the whole system, but am remiss to set it aside lest the teachings themselves, so important, become lost in the struggle for equality and equity.

I try my best to hold to bar that dynamic from entering my own mentor-disciple relationships. I try to stress my humanity and frailty and lack of knowledge; I've learned to accept the fact that I have no power to compel others, and also attempt to stress to my disciples that I hold no real power over them. I want them to know that we walk together, as equals, through this process, and that I am no better than they are.

I fear it is the best I can do, the only thing I can do.

The Inner Critique

I did a good deed today. I went to my grandparents' home this afternoon, armed with a DVD, and I sat and watched it with them. In Spanish, with the English subtitles (because my Spanish is, sadly, not as good as I would hope it to be).

I came up with the idea to do this last night, in a bout of ill-advised self-righteous guilt, condemning the rest of my family for the way in which they treat my grandparents but not doing anything myself to make their lives a little bit better. Condemning my mother and sister and father for trying to get them to eat more healthily at 80+ years of age, for trying to get them to exercise, or even just get out of the house more, for trying to uproot them and change long-standing patterns and habits. My family does this out of love, but the simple answer is that my grandparents do not really want to change. Otherwise they would.

So the question is how to make them happy, and the simple answer to that is: just be there.

Hence the movie, and going to see them.

Of course, I feel guilty because I don't particularly want to spend time with them. I had no innate desire to hang around them. I wish I could see them as repositories of wisdom, elders with insight, to be admired and honored. Only: I don't. Folly of youth, I guess.

But what does it mean, to honor your elders, when they are so clearly fucked-up themselves? How do you do that, when they are patently insane, in that geriatric sort of way? It's one of the odder, and more difficult (in my opinion), of the commandments. Because if I listened to everything my elders said, then I would probably not drive a car. Ever.

But somehow, armed with the knowledge that they are not long for this world, I find it a little easier to show my grandparents a degree of patience, tolerance and love I would not ordinarily have for them. The previously difficult-to-swallow now rolls easily off my back, if I may mix my metaphors.

And in the midst of all this, I felt as if I had something... something good inside of me. Something real, and pure, a desire to do something genuinely right for the world. And that is an odd position for me, because normally I don't think of myself that way, and so this good felt, in fact, alien, foreign, not of me but bestowed to me as a gift to bring to other people. Of myself, I am nothing, just this selfish, pathetic little thing, but this good... this good is something better.

Maybe it's some residual Catholic guilt, there, a twinge of original sin. Or maybe it's because after the awful things that I've done in my past, I feel irredeemably stained and forsaken. I don't know; I just know that I have a difficult time thinking of myself as being a genuinely good person. Some inner critic is always present, pointing out everything that is wrong, questioning every kind gesture I might make, but also holding out some idealized sainthood as bait.

Deep down, that's what I've always wanted to be, of course: a saint. I've wanted to be good, noticeably good, genuinely good, but I've always fallen short of the ideal and therefore, I guess, figured that I must not be good at all. Sort of like wanting to be an Olympic athlete and giving up the sport entirely once realizing that no amount of training or determination will allow this to come true. Which begs the question of why one entered that sport in the first place.

I'm tired inside, so very tired of this struggle, that I don't even want to be good any more. I want to be selfish and I want to lie and I want to have whatever I want whenever I want it because what I want seems so bloody reasonable anyway, only... only I fear the critic inside, whom I presume to be (in reality) external critics, telling me that I have to continue, that I can't take time for myself or give something to me.

I want to be good without having to do anything.

Lately, the only thing that's been saving me has been this inkling that it's OK, that I'm alright, that I don't need to be better and I don't need to improve, because I'm loved and accepted as I am. Now and then I feel that in my prayers, feel like I'm alright and I don't need to worry, and that helps.

Because the rest of the time, I grind my bones into flour over this worry.

I'm really far from being very OK, mentally.

Both Christmas and my birthday are coming up shortly, and I was surprised to discover this year that when I was asked what I'd like for either, I didn't have anything.

It's not that there is nothing that I want; rather, it's that the things which I'd like are intangibles: a full-time job with health insurance. The chance to go to the tekke in Michigan this Spring. More time with my girlfriend, most especially the chance/ability to move in with her more permanently.

Not so much with the physical things. I mean, I've asked for a suit, because I'll need one at some point, but I dislike suits; I'd rather not bother with formal wear. I casually, and off-handedly, asked for a iPhone, but that wasn't serious: it was simply the fact that I can't think of anything I particularly want.

Never-the-less, I generally just don't want anything, and that's odd to me.

It's not a spiritual thing, either; it's not like I'm curbing my appetite for material objects in some sort of bid for spiritual glory and immaterial satisfaction. Really, I just don't care.

I suppose there must be some sort of benefit to this, but right now I just don't care.

Like a Kid in an Office-Supply Store

Once upon a time, in a place a little far away, and not too long ago, I was alone.

I was alone, and friendless, and I had almost nothing. I lost everything I had, and everything that I knew, or thought I knew, was suddenly no longer worth anything because it no longer made sense, or worked. I was tired, and very scared, and while in this state, I stumbled (by chance or Providence, I cannot say) upon a group of people who took me in.

They were, and hopefully still are, a motley bunch. They accepted me unconditionally, only asking that I might come back to see them again, which I gratefully did. They offered me a place to go, and their charity, care, and compassion, and a way to get in touch with an unsuspected inner resource that would enable me to meet every challenge I might ever face - if I wanted that way, that is. Lonely, and scared, and tired, I wanted it. Quite desperately, in fact.

Over a period of time, I found that inner resource. I carry it with me all the time, 'closer than my jugular vein', you might say; like looking around the corner at another life behind ordinary life. A subtle art of seeing, an intimate intuition of the way things should always be.

Never before, really, have I had it so good: never before have I been so in love, with my girlfriend, my God, and my life. I've discovered the fine and simple art of not-taking-yourself-so-damned-seriously, how to be a better child in and of this world, and I'm earnestly practicing it, trying to improve the skill with which I employ it in daily living. I've found out how to stop caring about so many, many things, and instead to really live with a certain simplicity and simplistic joy. I feel... wonderful.

Yet... alone. Apart. Different. From just about everybody and everything. Like a kid, surrounded by grown-ups, talking about really boring self-important things, silly gossip and petty rivalries and witless self-aggrandizement, people taking everything so bloody serious, taking themselves so bloody seriously, playing make-believe so hard that they've forgotten it's a game and aren't having fun any more.

Everything about the way I was taught, the training I got in how-to-remember-it's-not-important-and-neither-are-you, says this is all my fault. Not the other people, mind, but the feeling alone, apart, different. If I feel like a child surrounded by grown-ups, this way says, that means I'm the one doing something wrong.

Only, it's been about two years, now, and I've tried everything I can think to do to fix the problem, and none of it seems to work. Again and again, and again and again and again, I seem to keep coming to this place.

I'm starting to wonder, now, if maybe the problem isn't me; I'm starting to wonder if, perhaps, I'm just the only child in this room full of adults, and the problem is, instead, that I need to find the rest of us kids.

I mean, I've found one. My girlfriend is a kid, such as I describe. She knows not to take things so damned seriously. It's one of the things about her which I adore: the silly songs she sings, the way she wiggles her butt and dances around, the way she pouts and wants to help with the cooking and all the rest.

I guess I fear, sometimes, like now, that we're the only ones around.

I don't think we can be, really; there have to be more of us.

Just.... where?