I was swept away by the healing ritual, chanting with a hundred others as we worked with the energy of Isis. My friend from the other side of Paganism, however, was aghast.
“You invoke the gods and then do nothing for them. You’re not even properly grateful.” For her the gods existed externally and needed to be honoured and thanked, not used as props in a psychodrama. I just knew that the ritual had worked. I felt alive and uplifted.
As I fumbled to explain, she asked in exasperation, “I mean, what exactly do you believe?”
Krishna Das tells the story of an important teaching he received from a fellow disciple of his guru, Maharaji: The disciple showed him with great ceremony an object hidden deep in a cupboard, wrapped in a dirty cloth. It was a small beat-up aluminum pot. The disciple unwrapped it and showed it off reverently. “Do you see?” he said. “You don’t have to shine. You don’t have to shine.” *
I got called out by my kid. And it was gut-wrenching.
They’d embarked on an exploration of “family stories” they wanted to rewrite, the unspoken assumptions and unwritten rules of their upbringing. When they shared this their words were calm but direct. The unquestioning child was gone. A fully observant adult stood in their place.
Seeing myself and our family life through their eyes was….bracing. Scary. I had to face some uncomfortable truths, and found myself filled with a sense of loss and regret. I hadn’t been a perfect parent, and I wasn’t a perfect person.
But this was a perfect chance to step into the fire.
I won a set of brown beads in a raffle. They were simple and pleasing, warm to the touch. To my surprise, they turned out to be amber, understood by the ancients as both a kind of solidified sunlight and as the tears of a goddess.
One of my yoga students approached me after class. She wanted to discuss a scene from a book I’d leant her.
“You know how the author is teaching a yoga class, and one of his students breaks down crying and he cradles her head in his hands and acts as her witness? And then he shows her how to be her own witness?”
Sure, I love bad boys. They’re sexy, rebellious, often funny, deliciously scary. But why I really love them? Because they’re honest. Because they know how to suffer. On those days when Facebook is filled with “humble brags” and Pollyanna affirmations, I find myself on the side of those who aren’t afraid to complain.
Fear. We’re in it all the time. The cancer patients I teach, friends on the financial edge, my husband who has nightmares. A disturbing childhood vision--an intruder climbing a ladder to his room but somehow never reaching the sill--means he hates to be alone in the house.
I don’t fear death or burglars, just failure and ferris wheels. But that’s been enough to affect many life choices. I don’t drive or have a career (or enjoy amusement parks). I lead classes and ritual, but both make me sweat. I imagine my friends rolling their eyes as I seek reassurance for something I’ve done a hundred times before.
Erin Lale
Fellow faculty at Harvard Divinity School posted an open letter to Wolpe in response to his article. It's available on this page, below the call for p...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. The Wild Hunt has a roundup of numerous responses on its site, but it carried this one as a separate article. It is an accoun...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. This one is by a scholar of paganism. It's unfortunately a Facebook post so this link goes to Facebook. She posted the text o...
Erin Lale
Here's another link to a pagan response to the Atlantic article. I would have included this one in my story too if I had seen it before I published it...
Janet Boyer
I love the idea of green burials! I first heard of Recompose right before it launched. I wish there were more here on the East Coast; that's how I'd l...