This Fall, while hiking along Bent Creek here in the North Carolina mountains, I paused to watch the water running over the river smoothed rocks. The clear water rippled the sunlight and that, mixed with the smell of fresh mountain air and the sounds of the stream, carried me back to my childhood. I was the curious boy wading the creek below our house. The light filtered through green trees and the creek held treasures both natural and man-made — smooth rocks, sand-scrubbed glass, the occasional fossil, discarded debris –were all sources of endless fascination. When I stepped on a moss-slicked rock and fell in, well… that was just part of the experience to explain to my mother’s horrified look when I got home wet and muddy. Life was good.
The creek was a playground where I could pit boyish ambition against the forces of nature; piling rocks to slow the water and create a deeper pool for wading or soaking. It was also good for problem-solving. Where’s the water getting through? What’s the perfect stone, stick, or tree limb that might block that hole? But the unintended and ultimate lesson was this, the creek was always going to win. Sooner or later, work as I might—block this hole, move that rock, wedge in a stick there—the water would find its way around, over, ever forward. Nature would have its way – always.
In mere seconds staring into Bent Creek, all this flashed through my memory from years gone and here I am in this later stage of my life where time flows on and ages my body. I search out various fixes – personal habits of how I eat, exercise, or use medical interventions from pharmaceuticals to physical therapy. All are attempts to slow or offset the effects of time flowing by; to create a calmer spot in the stream where I might labor, relax, visit, laugh or play for a while longer. But I also know, in the end, nothing stops the stream. Nature will win, my body will fail, and I will be gone. I’m okay with that.
I’m not in any hurry; I have a lot to live for. Nor are these premonitions but, at my age, I know that – even if should I live to the highly improbable age of 110 – more of my life is now behind me than ahead. And I’m happy to be settled about that. Fifty, thirty, even twenty years ago, I was uncomfortable with my own mortality. Today, I am not because I accepted death as part of life. As for what happens next, well… in the words of a folk song, I decided to “let the mystery be.”
These days I give little thought to heaven or hell. Certainly, as a gay man I’ve been told on numerous occasions I’m going to hell, but such rude opinions don’t trouble me anymore. If something of “me” exists after my body dies – a highly dubious hypothesis, but still a possibility – it will be whatever is me. This suggests that I shouldn’t worry about afterward, I should tend to things here and now. I don’t worry about going to hell, I work here to not be hell, a potential existing in anyone. To become hell is easy; just be consumed with myself. Make it all about me. Fail to acknowledge the humanity or value of others. And what a sad person that would make me. If only I and my little circle matter to me, that is a small little life unworthy of the investment of time I’ve given it. I don’t know what happens when we die and, say whatever they believe, neither does anyone else, but if I exist afterward, what I am is what I carry with me when I go. If I have an ugly soul here, it won’t look any prettier over there.
Spirituality for me, then, is deeply connected to how I relate to and interact with others. I believe much of the pain and suffering in the world is made by us when we’re hell-bent on getting or keeping power, money, prestige, or other things that buttress our own sense of self. We all need a sense of self and I want mine to arise out of compassion, caring, honesty, justice, fairness, and a concern for those who follow after me. There is nothing wrong with power or money or prestige. But I take a broader truth from John Wesley’s caution about money, of which he said, “Money is a wonderful servant, but a terrible master.” When my pursuit of that begins to erode my commitment to those other selves, I’m losing my way.
Many things in our lives are useful servants and that makes them seductive. They are useful or even necessary, but when they become the yardstick of my success as a human being, my reason for being in the world, I begin to lose my spirituality, my connections to others. Opioids are a useful analogy. No medicine has more potential to relieve pain and suffering like opioid drugs. That’s why we persist in using them as pain medications. They are wonderful servants. But when they become the master in someone’s life, all hell breaks loose. Or consider Purdue Pharma and the now infamous Sackler family who made billions while deceiving patients, doctors and the public as they pushed their opioids. Money had quit being their servant and was now the master. Indeed, the “profit motive” in end-stage capitalism is the problem where the supposed servant – profit – has become the master. When profits consistently matter more than people, whole systems and the people running them lose their souls.
I would be embarrassed if anyone thinks I am making any claims here to sainthood or superiority. Despite the above examples, I don’t write to admonish you, but myself. I’ve had my hellish moments and, sadly, probably will again. The times I recall sit as cringe-worthy events in my memory. I’m certain there were other times when I didn’t even notice, so I work to reduce the frequency of such moments. I write today to remind myself I can be a better version of me, someone who does not treat other people or the rest of world as existing for my use or convenience. And I write to share a vision of how I measure my own spirituality in hopes of finding kindred spirits. It’s a large subject, so this is Part 1 of my exploration of spirituality. I will say more in future posts.
Tikkun olam – heal the world. AB