spiritual tourism

I am a human, and it’s my instinct to communicate new perspectives, to submit healing, even when these demands the courage to be lonely. Still, I yield to the collective inclination to penalize differences. It could only be outweighed by my addiction to search for monsters everywhere but inside. This will last until I am challenged by an unbearable gravity when I have no escape but to address my demons. I then commit myself to the care of obscurity, gradually increasing the volume of confusion. I pick up a diet, fitness regiment, a religion, psychotherapy, rationalized meditative ritual, devotional yoga practice, and just about anything else esoteric that feels right and convenient.

Any modality of a dialogue with the self that consents me to bypass learning the language that is not spoken. Until I realize that I cannot go farther yet merely use my legs to walk about. All actions of elate compliment and a thousand Instagram likes, only to experience the familiar existential anguish. I reproduce an averted pattern of consumerist pursuit, now towards self-improvement, biohacking, and saving the planet. My pursuit of happiness and stress release becomes a chase of answers to the wrong questions. At the same time, my life remains an irredeemable tragedy and in greater danger because I have lost my stature of normalcy.

Normalcy - an unfair advantage that works similarly to natural beauty. The privilege of belonging comes at the price of being expected to deliver more and again. To prevail under continuous pressure of maintaining one’s positions and climb up to the fabricated uppermost portion, grappling with the illusion of perpetual growth in the world of limited resources. It’s fascinating how gladly I Christianized my taste for spirituality with the persistence of monotheistic literalism, exercising the same pathological properties in the “spirit” I applied in the “matter” before.

I realize that I can’t perceive invisible in the physical universe but deliberately envision it. I struggle to leave it undefined, indeterminate, searching truth in scientific evidence or an image of a guru. I take philosophical texts to confirm my search for the Soul or psychedelic drugs to deny it. I lean towards a yoga teacher, someone with superior expertise, to get instructed on “hearing the voice.” My inner voice is getting pissed off at me, spinning my life into another drama.

The self, the architect, my inner creative, an artist, a lover, she wants me to understand things I asked for. She shouts at me through my dreams, self-care rituals, my practice and daily routine. She tries to get my attention, but I can’t understand her because I am too distracted by either profane nonsense or a holy one. I am not learning her language, making me a tourist in the inherent world she lives in.

I need to ground what role spirituality plays in my world. Imbue the ordinary with metaphysical qualities. Discover the sacred in daily life, at my neighbour’s backyard, how I treat my friends and family, value daily routines and honour artistic rituals. I should forget the virtue of not knowing who I am and keep doing the work with pure intention. When work is done for the next time, I can say “Namaste,” bowing forward to my feet, forehead on the ground, connecting “namas” with action, with “kāra,” not in the literal direction but in the evident one. Then, I do the work again. I want to move in — not just visit — so we — I and the self — will conceive!