Exhale: A Different Approach to Post Abortion Counseling

Exhale. To expel. To emerge. To breathe. 

On a recent podcast by Fully Engaged Feminism, Laura interviews one of the founders of Exhale, an organization dedicated to post abortion counseling. The group’s mission doesn’t stem from polarized politics nor is their plight a guise for other intentions. Simply, it’s to give voice, to give heart, and to give a listening ear. They consider themselves Pro-Voice.

Aspen Baker briefly chronicles her experience post abortion. She found few counseling options, and those that did exist were tied to Christian organizations, which also were Pro-Life. At the other end of the spectrum was a feminist movement more concerned with establishing reproductive rights than providing outreach to women. Neither side seemed suitable to help her with the torrid of thoughts and emotions that consumed her, and because of that, she found several other women in the same position and decided to create a space where women and men could have an outlet to discuss life after the choice.

Aspen’s feelings may be misinterpreted by a biased eye, regardless of political affiliation. Imagine being a woman entering a medical center who has mulled over this decision, the choices, the variables in her life. Analyzing every minute detail, every scenario, and no matter the final decision, there is no concrete conclusion, no definitive closure regardless of the choice made. Each option entails a path of emotional and psychological effects, of some form of struggle or sacrifice. In the particular choice of abortion, it is quite common for a woman to walk the premises with a number of abortion protestors mere feet away. Voices calling that she can still be saved, it isn’t too late for the soul. They hold signs with images of fetuses, words succinct but sharp: immoral, hell, death, murder. Is this the Christian death row? To call each woman out as murderer? What stone do they have the right to cast? 

Then it is these same people, these same beliefs, that stand at the exit with sudden open arms. They speak of trauma, of sin, of forgiveness. These words of compassion coming from the same people that spewed vicious slurs. It isn’t a welcoming feeling for many women who have had an abortion. Something seems innately off, wrong, about the two -faced act. But often times, it is only these groups that offer any form of counseling, whether or not their political and religious intentions are made clear, if it is the only option, then some women would rather have a biased shoulder to lean on than none at all.

On the other side are groups who have fought for the reproductive freedom of women, and sometimes associate the vocalizing of post abortion effects as siding with Pro-Life attributes. The focus has been on establishing the law, but the voices and stories that catalyzed the revolution have gone mute. Unheard by many ears of the feminist movement because any sign of emotion signifies the opposite of their purpose, of their vision, of what they represent and are striving to achieve. 

Sometimes gray is the worst place to be, stuck in shades of white and black, and all there is is a fog. These are many women, no side hears their voice, their stories. Either there is no respect of the choice made or no respect for the feelings and thoughts that come later. So, Exhale was created as a space to remedy that void. To exist in the gray with those women, taking no political side but as they call, Pro-Voice. Let these women be heard. It isn’t about law, or right or wrong, or saving face. It is a sacred space of experience. 

In the end, there are no parties, no sides, no politics. At heart is the voice of a woman that many ears are deaf to. Listen and you will hear…

Am I not your sister? Your mother? Your daughter? 

Do not forsake love that binds. Do you not see how my heart weeps? 

Love. Please, oh please, just love me. I need compassion and a comforting embrace. 

Do not wipe away these tears. They are the words of my soul.

No judgement calls. I am no murderer.

Look into these eyes and you will see.

Am I not your sister? Your mother? Your daughter?

Shadow Woman

Melancholia. A jaundice soul. I am reminded of the shadow woman from the Yellow Wallpaper. In the daytime, she is a mere invisible rustle, but at night, she manifests. Rampant, chaotic, distressed. She flees, but from what because, after all, she is at wall and paper, no escape. No escape.

This is what it feels. Tonight, I listened to a podcast by APM: Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippett entitled The Soul in Depression. It confronts the stigma of depression, its poor contextual meaning, and how the voices of those touched by depression seem to go unheard. This is a subject plaguing my mind as of late. For several weeks, I’ve been taking an anti-anxiety medication. After some psychological and emotional episodes and confrontations at work, I felt I had two choices: quit or start seeing a psychiatrist. Though the first option almost was triumphant, as in I removed all personal possessions from my desk, had a serious, emotional conversation with my boss, and then left for a ‘personal’ day, having no backup plan, job, or sufficient savings to quit…I am, for now, stuck and eventually returned to my cubicle. But I haven’t put back up any pictures or returned personal keepsakes. I prefer to leave my desk barren. I have one foot out the door and there is no intention of going back. 

I chose a doctor based on my insurance’s list, and found myself sitting before a tall, lanky man whose shoes somehow seemed too big. But later I determined that wasn’t the case, it’s just the way he positions them, at times turning them towards each other when he begins an impassioned tangent, or how one dangles like a weight is dragging the toe down. He scribbles on yellow paper, and in my mind, I joked privately that he was likely drawing cartoons or sketching out a reverie. Though, I knew he was outlining my family history, my relationships with relatives, and my history with anxiety. At the end of the first meeting he asked if I had any questions. Yes, but not about me…do you ever see a therapist? And he laughed, amused by the query. “On occasion. I wouldn’t trust me if I didn’t.” His candidness and honesty from that one question was the only reason I decided to go back. 

So, for the time being, I’ve chosen to be put on medication. The doctor left it up to me. But the struggle over this decision has raised awareness of my own prejudice against psychological medications, the people who take them, and my skewed yet fully valid reasons for wanting to evade chemical manipulation. I had an intense anxiety about taking an anti-anxiety drug. 

My greatest fear is how this would effect me creatively. If I tamper with how I am innately, then how could that not alter a part of me that seems so heavily rooted in my shifted emotional state, perception of the world, etc. No matter the benefits, I will never sacrifice that. And a part of me feels that the sedation of people through medication is in essence slaughtering thousands of potential artists. This is a heavy bias. I openly admit that, and there are people who oppose this idea as well. Indeed, it isn’t necessarily fair to think that being an artist entails suffering, depression, running the emotional and psychological gambit, but it’s hard not to see a correlation when reading up in the lives of some of the world’s most famous artists regardless of their medium of choice. 

Another issue was that in deciding to take medication, I would undoubtedly have to confront that something is wrong. And I am not comfortable with acknowledging this yet. 

I have had relatively intense anxiety most of my life. The first incidence I can recall was soon after my parents divorced. I was six or seven and suddenly found that I could no longer stay composed in class. One second I was fine, and then an onslaught of feeling overwhelming, separate, anxious, it’d be difficult to breathe, and then I’d be sitting at my desk crying. Teachers had no idea what to do. I’d have to hear my father’s or mother’s voice, or have one of them come up to school just to hold me for several minutes, soothe me. Halfway through the school year, I was moved into a split grade class with several other students. And though I should have been distracted by the challenge of learning material from my grade level and the one above me, I could only stay calm if I looked at a picture of my mother that I kept in my desk. Anytime I’d start to sense those strained emotions, I’d just have to concentrate on her image, and after several minutes, I’d be fine. 

But even at home, my anxiety problems grew worse. I could no longer sleep in my bedroom for fear that if I was away from my parents that something would happen to them. I’d have nightmares of them dying in fires, crying out for help and I could do nothing because I was outside the flames. If left alone in my bedroom, it wouldn’t be long before I was screaming, crying out. And no matter how much they tried to be firm, to keep me in my own bed even with direct orders from our family counselor, I would always find myself at their bedside. The one time my mother locked me out, I pounded on her door for hours, crying, screaming how horrible she was and all I needed was for her to be with me so I’d know she was safe. I don’t remember if I finally fell asleep at her door or the couch, but I know I didn’t return to my bed. And this was how my life was for a few years, until my mother’s death. After she died, I never had problems sleeping in my room or staying at school. But those years of intense anxiety left a deep scar, and though I would fight back anxious feelings if they arose, I always wondered if working through it was enough. 

For the past two years, levels of anxiety equivalent to the magnitude I felt as a child have reemerged. The heart of it stemming from a detrimental relationship that helped propel me into the throws of an existential crisis whose edge I had been teetering on for some time. And the addition of accepting a position at a job I didn’t desire and don’t enjoy just contributed to feelings of shame, failure, anger, struggle, fear, and a great sense of Lost. 

Everything of the person I had been before that critical point seemed to evaporate. And what I was left with was the shadow woman. In the midst of an emotional hurricane, unable to sift through emotions, feel focused in heart, soul, and thought, I was a raw nerve. And all I wanted was to be alone, to cry, to be held. 

But, there is a side of depression and the emotions entailed that goes unnoticed by those never experiencing it. In actuality, this state is often the deluge of emotion, an inability to dam gates to keep it in, and though in a state of such darkness, it is also a period of intense feeling. And for the first time in my life, I was experiencing Feeling, it was so pungent to every sense that it was the overabundance of emotions that crippled me. I had become hypersensitive to not only my emotions, but to others’ as well. 

For that reason, I found myself on the verge of panic attacks in public or at work. To be so acutely in tuned with emotions is difficult to articulate. But to stand in an aisle with several people around and feel simultaneously frustration, joy, confusion, sadness…to be assaulted by an array of feeling at the same time just paralyzed me. It’d be difficult to breathe; I’d start wheezing lightly, and that tightening around my chest like my heart was in a vice, all I could do when this happened was flee. And on a few occasions, I left my cart or items and just left the store as fast as I could. But if this happens at work, I just can’t walkout and come back when I feel balanced or calm again. Instead, I’d have to cry in my car on lunch break or claim to be searching for an old file or document that was held in a locked storage room just so I know no one would seem me in such a state. But then strained work relationships with coworkers, bosses, and the stress of not only doing my job but fixing others’ mistakes, checking behind others was and is the dominant reasons for my dissatisfaction with my job. After my first session, I realized that almost the entire office is on a medication or self medicates through other means. I finally saw that I wasn’t necessarily innately crazy, but this job seems to have that effect on many of the people in it and talking with others outside the store I work at, medication or high levels of alcohol consumption are a bit of the norm for those in my field. 

So, my final decision is to get out. I decided that medication is short term, that I will not have my life be ‘tolerable’ with the help of a pill, but that I must recognize that on a deeper level I am troubled by not doing something I love to the point that it is destructive to me in many ways. But the podcast brought to light the awareness that came through this period of great pain for me, and how now on the other end, I see how beneficial it is to Feel, to be hyperaware of the state of others emotionally. It is that shadow woman that finally came into form, like a veil lifted, to find that in her was a light, a strength. That perhaps what I had perceived as distressed, as chaotic, was not the nature of her at all. Because it seems she is much more free than I had been. Wild and untamed, she feels, she sees, she fights to understand even when it might break her because that is Life, and in that is beauty, in that is spirit and spiritual. 

And I think of the woman, tearing down the yellow wallpaper, trying to free the shadow woman though in reality, she was freeing herself.

Krishnamurti: On Fear

While on holiday, I took along several books, but only managed to break open Krishnamurti’s book On Fear. The book is filled with excerpts from talks and Krishnamurti’s journal entries on the topic of fear. It’s a small read, but I still haven’t finished it. But I did want to post some excerpts that I found poignant. Likely there will be a near future post where I take what I’ve read and apply it to my own personal fears, breaking them down to notice the full extent of their nature, though really all fears are just fear regardless of the manifestations they undertake. 

 

Page 15

So there is in our life this constant state of comparison, competition, and the everlasting struggle to be somebody – or to be nobody, which is the same thing. This, I feel, is the root of all fear, because it breeds envy, jealousy, hatred. Where there is hatred there is obviously no love, and fear is generated more and more.

Page 40

But a word brings fear or pleasure into being through association and remembrance. We are slaves to words and to exasmine anything fully, to look, we must be free of the word. If I’m a Hindu and a Brahmin, a Catholic, a Protestant, an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, to look I have to be free of that word, with all its associations, and that’s extraordinarily difficult. The difficulty disappears when we are passionately inquiring, examining. 

Page 43

Fear ceases only when there is direct contact…To die means that you have to die every day, not just twenty years from now. You die every day to everything that you know, except technologically. You die to the image of your wife; you die every day to the pleasure you have, to the pains, the memories, the experiences. Otherwise you can’t come into contact with them. If you do die to them all, fear comes to an end and there is a renewal. 

Page 45

You know fear is also used to civilize man. Religions throughout the world have used fear as a means of controlling man. Have they not? They say that if you do not do certain things in this life, you will pay for it in the next life. Though all religions preach love, though they preach brotherhood, though they talk about the unity of man, they all subtly, or very brutally, grossly, maintain this sense of fear.

Page 47

Most of us are very conservative. You know what that word means, you know what it is to conserve? To hold, to guard. Most of us want to remain respectable and so we want to do the right thing, we want to follow the right conduct, which, if you go into it very deeply, you will see is an indication of fear. Why not make a mistake, why not find out? But the man who is afraid is always thinking ‘I must do the right thing, I must look respectable, I must not let the public think what I am or not’. Such a man is really, fundamentally, basically, afraid.

Page 48 

But the difficulty is: when there is fear, we do not create. A person who is afraid can never find truth or God. Behind all our worships, all our images, all our rituals, there is fear and, therefore, your gods are not gods, they are stones. 

Page 59

Fear and love cannot exist together. In this country there is no love. There is devotion, reverence, but no love. Devotion to your guru, to your gods, to your ideals, is self-worship. It is self-worship because you have created your guru, your ideals, your gods; you have created them, thought has created them, your grandfather has, and you accept this because it satisfies you, it gives you comfort. So what you are devoted to is yourself. Swallow that pill and live with it! 

Page 71

Thought is responsible for fear; also, thought is responsible for pleasure. One has had a happy experience; thought thinks about it and wants it perpetuated. When that is not possible there is a resistance, anger, despair, and fear. So thought is responsible for fear as well as pleasure, isn’t it? This is not a verbal conclusion; this is not a formula for avoiding fear. That is, where there is pleasure there is pain and fear perpetuated by thought; pleasure goes with pain, the two are indivisible. 

Page 76

What brings this division between you, your wife or your husband, and your children? Division is disorder. Muslim and Hindu, Jew and Arab, Communism, totalitarianism, and freedom. These opposites are the essence of disorder. So what brings about disorder in our relationships, with the most intimate and the not so intimate? Have you ever thought about it?

Page 84

Fear itself, not the various forms of fear. See how we break up fear. That’s part of our tradition, to bring about a fragmentation of fear, and therefore be concerned with only one type of fear. Not with the whole tree of fear, but a particular branch, or a particular leaf of it. The whole nature, the structure, the quality of fear – in observing that very closely, in the very watching there is the revelation of the causation – not you analyzing to find out the cause but the very watching showing the causation, which is time and thought. 

Page 85

So thought and time are the central factors of fear. Thought is not separate from time. They are one. These are the facts. This is the causation of fear. It is a fact – not an idea, not an abstraction – that thought and time is the cause of fear. It is singular. 

Page 86

The self-interest in our life is the cause of fear.

Herstory

I’ll keep this brief…go vote.  

Ok, I should elaborate more. There’s a photography contest called Name Your Dream Assignment, which seems to be legit. And the award is more than any photographer could ask for, $50,000 to pursue your dream project. The top 20 with the most votes will go on to a final judging by professionals, where the winner will be chosen. No matter who is awarded the prize in the end, I hope the images captured and the journey trekked will be a compelling visual narrative for all communities. Below is the link to my idea, but I also suggest perusing others as you can vote for multiple people (just not more than once for the same idea). 

Herstory

Insider vs Outsider

In Religious Studies, fieldwork is an expected practice, and when introduced to approaching fieldwork, it is quickly taught the potential dilemma that will arise: Insider vs Outsider. 

Insider is the person or group being studied. The outsider is the scholar. Being an outsider causes limitations both needed and impeding when conducting fieldwork. As an outsider, one automatically has a different understanding of anything seen or spoken by the group because that scholar comes in with personal biases, constructs from his or her society, and sometimes, paradigms of the academic world that only permit certain interpretations or theories to be published or accepted in the mainstream. The easiest example would be when Catholic priests would go into indigenous tribes around the world. They interpreted that group’s rituals through the scope of understanding within Christian teachings and beliefs. Therefore, a ritual to a particular deity would likely be interpreted as heretical, demonic, and so on because the point-of-view of the priest was constructed by different societal structures and religious beliefs. However, the ‘outsider’ status is necessity because it maintains enough metaphorical distance that the scholar can still analyze and critique the group’s beliefs and practices. (Note: critique isn’t meant in the negative sense)

But, this still creates a predicament. An outsider will remain too distant, too ignorant of the group’s practices, if there isn’t some stepping over into ‘insider’ domain. To know the language and comprehend through the contextual meaning the people do, to live with the people, to not only witness ritual but perhaps participate in it and all the while, attempting to suspend enough of one’s own beliefs long enough to make the leap to understand someone different. But this too can be problematic because where does a scholar draw the line between insider and outsider? When does too much of one or the other corrupt or jeopardize the research? And there really doesn’t seem to be a conclusive answer.

I’m bringing this up because I’m facing the same ‘Insider vs Outsider’ dilemma in my photography. Perhaps not to the same extent. But today served as an example of how I teeter on that border, never wanting to fully commit to one or the other. I attended a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight, to remember those tortured and murdered, to vocalize the atrocities committed by China, to ask with our hearts for peace. Immediately, I stand out with my camera not being the tiny point-and-shoot. I always explain I’m a freelance photographer because I’m not hired on with any publication nor do my images ever get published unless an image from an event is needed and it just happens no other photographer working for a publication went (I usually leave this part out). But I notice the skepticism that comes as well; I’m not necessarily trusted. And anyone has reason to be skeptical, and after all, I prefer people practice good hermeneutics even if it revolves around me. 

Personally, before going into an event, I determine an ethical or etiquette code to follow, with allowable adjustments depending on how things unfold. When it comes to religious events, I’m especially cautious. I refrain from photographing during prayers, moments of silence, and usually will consult someone about any particular restrictions I may not be aware of. An example is when I photographed a Native American Pow Wow, there’s no photography permitted during the opening ceremony and dance, and I would not have known had I not talked with the organizers; so, though I usually advocate “do and ask forgiveness later,” I don’t in the case of religious and spiritual events because if bonds of trust are so quickly tainted, that group will never want me to attend another event nor will I meet people who can help connect me deeper into that world.

As the event began, people circled around a small table with candles and an area with a mic where several speakers stood nearby. I stayed to the sidelines with the group, but maintained a front position. The crowd was small, an intimate gathering, so I decided to choose a spot wisely based on the setup and not move too much, perhaps only kneeling or small shifts to the side because I didn’t want to distract. When they prayed, I put down my camera, when there was a ten minute moment of silence, my camera was off; when they handed out candles after the opening speeches, I took one and did my best to not let my flame die (it did twice, eek). My behavior leaned a bit more towards the ‘insider,’ but due to respect, my background in Religious Studies, and my personal history and interactions with those in Dharamsala. 

There was another photographer there, obviously professional with his long lens and hood cover, which it was overcast so I wasn’t sure why he even bothered with a hood cover, but I digress. He moved around constantly. He didn’t take a candle and actually stepped away for several minutes during the moment of silence. And all this isn’t really that bad, but what did irk me was during the group prayers, he walked into the middle of the circle on several occasions to photograph the table of candles. And I’m just sort of looking at him, wondering if he realizes how obnoxious he’s being by stepping into the empty center enveloped by a crowd and getting right in front of the speakers while they’re reciting prayers aloud? It was just sort of tacky. Tacky because that was a particular image he could have gotten at another time. It’s a shot that requires a closeup, macro frame, but it wasn’t the type of image I’d even consider being obnoxious for. When people started accepting candles, I stood to the side to photograph the more ‘intimate’ images I wanted, but I didn’t push people aside or interrupt a poignant moment. He was a complete ‘outsider,’ perceiving the situation from a standpoint of photographer only. What shots do I need? When the opportunity comes to get those shots, take it. Find different angles. And so on. 

I understand his thought process as a photographer. But I also understood the purpose of the event, the type of gathering it was, and indeed, I sacrificed some good shots because of my choice to behave a certain way. 

In my short time as a photographer, I’ve learned two things very quickly. The first, a lot of people say they’re a photographer. I have never met so many photographers in my life until I became one. Seriously. And the second involves photographers’ etiquette. Many people I meet who aren’t photographers usually have a story about an obnoxious photographer they’ve encountered whether it’s been at an event, a friend’s wedding, their own wedding, etc. I’ve taken those stories a bit to heart, knowing I don’t want to be that type of photographer. The more that I can make myself ‘unseen’ though clearly visible, the better. And that ability to be ‘unseen’ in plain sight is possible when many variables are weighed and varying strategies and techniques are used to make me insignificant in a person’s or group’s awareness within that moment. And in truth, I find that to be the key in capturing a moment. It doesn’t always work out like I want, and I don’t always get the photographs I want, but this method has given me enough good/great images that I consider it effective.

So, the dilemma of ‘Insider vs Outsider’ now finds itself in my photographic ventures. I keep wondering when Religious Studies will stop popping up in each facet of my life, but it is a steadfast thing. Granted, one could say my personal scope is merely biased based on the constructs of my field of study…and I couldn’t say that’d be wrong.

Photograph of the Week

 

Photographed is the Venerable Geshe Dakpa Topgyal during a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight for freedom and human rights. The ceremony took place at Colonial Lake in Downtown Charleston. A small gathering that was intimate and poignant. Lovely simple. Just words, prayers, dixie cup candle abodes, and silence, remembrance and love projected to the world.

In the Land of Shiva: Part XIII

We rose with the sun in search of the holiest site in Sikhism. And I relished the plush green carpet beneath my feet, the Western showers, hot water pouring down, a four star hotel for the same price as a Motel 8 room in the States. It was luxury.

Not the same can be said for the taxi driver we reserved for the weekend. I discovered his bed was the backseat of the taxi, likely a quick face and ear wash with cold water in a bathroom nearby. He packed no change of clothes, np overnight bag for our two day journey, only his thinning button up shirt, pants, and a Punjabi music cassette that we’d listen to for over 5 hours that weekend. I thought it odd to memorize excerpts of a song in a language I didn’t speak, words whose meaning I failed to grasp. 

He left us in a parking lot. Melancholy buildings loomed around, Indian men’s eyes stared at these six Western women huddled together, whispering concerns, debating direction to step. The driver just waived for us to walk away, and hesitantly, we complied. But after five minutes, the same decrepit structures and eyes with different faces remained. It felt like post war Europe invaded with immigrants, and we panicked, racing back to the lot. Taxi and driver gone. Shit. Abandoned in Amritsar. 

We decided to retrace our steps thinking perhaps we didn’t go far enough. But nothing fit, nothing made sense. We were in search of a building of gold, but we were encompassed by forgotten structures, their facades faded and subdued. It would be like finding Eden within the bounds of a wasteland. 

After a ten minute walk and rounding a corner, we came to see this was indeed the case. Red and silver streamers glimmered in the morning light, a party at the edge of disaster. An immaculate structure encircled the Golden Temple, a threshold to be crossed, separating sacred from profane. 

Beneath a tent, we slipped off our shoes and handed them over in exchange for a chip. Within the tiled ground were basins of water. Slowly walking through, washing my feet of impurities so as not to taint holy ground. As I climbed the steps, a sliver of gold began to appear. At the top, all was revealed, a temple of gold that almost seemed to be floating on water. How the rising sun warmed its walls with light, causing it to radiate. 

At the sight of it, Haylee cried. Others wanted a moment of silent meditation. And I was in a state of horrific concern. Never would I share my thoughts at that precise moment with them, even with Jaye, nor with another when I returned home in the weeks to come. Before me was a building that invoked awe. That awoke the numinous and compelled people to to their knees, to prayer, to tears. But inside me, before that great temple, was a terrifying silence, a void of emotive fervor. So scared was I of this absent emotion that I almost broke down and wept. And the source of my tears would have been misinterpreted drastically.

The hallow state I felt then haunted me for so long after that day. I thought myself soul sick. How could a student of religions, so passionate about this discourse, feel nothing before one of the greatest temples in the world? And how could others that knew nothing of Sikhism, little of this temple, of its significance to Sikhs, could be struck so powerfully just at the sight of its walls? I evaded ruminating on this for months, fearing what I may unearth about myself in the process. I blamed it on the sickness waking from dormancy in my belly, the nausea and pepto chewables I ate like candy. Yes, it was illness, dehydration, a sick state of being that ruined my encounter with the Golden Temple. I knew this to be a lie, but I willed myself to believe it until the day I realized what had happened to me that day. A revelation that came almost an entire year later.

At the doors of the temple, sound changes. No longer can the ears distinguish between sounds. All there is is a series of voices, prayers, a chorus of bodies without a conductor to guide them. Men and women stand with eyes closed, hands pressed together all the while their mouths move. No room for air between brother and sister, feel the sweat of another, their breath upon your back. And the deeper inside the abyss of bodies, the sound rises, the mind hears nothing but hundreds of voices in indecipherable tongues and all that I can see is the center, the reason for bowed heads, and prostrations, tears and prayers. Roped off is three men and the sacred text, the eternal prophet of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib. 

Standing but several feet away, I am pushed, jostled, shoved away by pilgrims earnestly reaching towards the sacred heart of their being. Rupees are being tossed in, crumpled bills, meager coin change. Dozens on their knees, arms stretched towards men who hold folded orange fabric. These are blessed, to be worn by men upon their brow, but only if the right number of rupees fall to the ground. So many palms open, waiting to be filled. 

I am entranced. Paralyzed by so much before me. My eyes attempt to take it all in, I want to remember it all. And the voices make it difficult to focus. I see the intricate craftsmanship of its underbelly, vivid paints on all its walls, blues, oranges, whites, and the reflected light from its gold walls cascades inside. I cannot move, cannot dismiss these prostrating bodies, their prayers, the smell of their skin, the reading of scripture, too much in this place lives, too much to segregate in the mind. And then I feel my sickness rising, the heat of too many bodies causing my body to concede. Now I pray a silent prayer, “Don’t throw up in their sacred space. Do not throw up in their sacred space.” 

And I’m chanting this over and over in my head. Trying to inch my way towards the closest open space, a bit of air and perhaps I’ll be okay. And then I feel a quick slap across my head, then another. I turn to find an old woman, hair white and face pruned, berating me in Hindi. She slaps the side of my head again, and I jerk away from her, think her mad. But then she smacks her own head, and I realize my grave error. In the midst of my fixation and illness, my headscarf had slipped off, exposing my dark brown hair, a naked head before something so holy. I am horrified, and quickly adjust my scarf, tuck back my hair. All the while I’m apologizing in a language no one around me knows. Long ago was I separated from the others, now alone to face my gaffe. I’m inching away, giving a half bow, the only Hindi word I can think of is Namaste, no use in this context. But I think myself forgiven, for she laughed at me, then went back to her prayer. I managed not to vomit on sacred ground, but brandishing an uncovered head just may trump illness.

The experience and exertion of the morning had drained my energy. I was so tired that all I yearned for was the small cot and window air conditioning that awaited me back at the hotel. My belly and soul were soured, and I just wanted to retreat back to seclusion.

A year later, I once again confronted the void I felt at the sight of the temple. It was an issue I kept analyzing for months, wondering the extent of the illness in my soul. But one day, I realized why it had been such. In Religious Studies, it is said that one sees religion one of two ways: from the top down or from the bottom up. Those focused on the top are usually fixated with god(s), philosophy, abstractions, manifestations of the sacred, symbols, and so on. But those that start at the bottom likely never raise their head enough to even see the sky. The bottom is the people. The focus on the ritual, the internalizing of beliefs, the manifestation of religion in thoughts, speech, action, the union of spirituality and religion with a person, a community, a people.

Since the day I devoted myself to the study of religions, I have been a practitioner of from the bottom up. It is within the lives and stories of the people that I seek religion and spirituality, abstractions do little to entice and engage me, as is the same with gods and philosophy. I felt nothing at the sight of the temple, but was greatly overwhelmed within its walls, engulfed by hundreds of devotees. I sought to etch into my mind the images of praying, prostrating, puja, the smells, all I touched, the sensuality and spirituality that saturated that space.  It took so long for me to see, to realize, what truly invoked me, but the day that I finally understood this gave me insight I had lacked even into my own being.

Heretic

Speak with a sin tainted tongue. Nooses, guillotines, death by fire, all fates to questioning minds. Kill the intellect and what is left but sheep unaware they’re trotting towards the edge of a cliff?

Tonight I listened to This American Life, an episode dedicated to a modern day heretic, Carlton Pearson. Evangelical born and raised, cast out his first demon in his teens, rose up in the community of Tulsa due to his charismatic and spiritual presence. Established a continuously growing church, national prestige, and notoriety. And then he decided something, that hell doesn’t exist. Hell is a concept, a state, created and alive within this world but not the afterlife. This conclusion came when he decided that his god would not drag people into eternal suffering that had no way of hearing the word of god, to opportunity to be saved. Pearson said at that moment the spirit spoke to him and said hell, suffering, was of this earth and all were saved through the death and blood no matter what. Quite a detour from traditional theology, especially a denomination known for its passionate sermons on brim stone and fire, words intent to instill fear.

Because of this, he was officially declared a heretic. His congregation that was in the thousands dwindled to a couple of hundred, a schism occurred between him and several of his pastors, Christian media ostracized him and maliciously set out to ruin him. The concept of an open door heaven and a nonexistent hell was something most Christians couldn’t digest or accept. Pearson received one letter stating that the Bible laid out all the rules whether we liked it or not.

And that statement written by a stranger I will never know is what terrified me. Since when is the will of a person so crippled to as not change anything let alone the interpretation of a text that has been victim to misinterpretation, manipulation, and assumption for hundreds of years? A book created by a council that determined what to be orthodoxy or heretical; to sift out texts that stood alone in theme and concept. Those men sought to change the literature of Christians, their intention to unite a greatly diversified tradition still new in comparison to its Ancient East siblings.

I say this, and I mean it to be taken with great thought and introspection, God is not absolved of accountability.

Nor are we.

After studying the history of Christianity, I found its past littered with a disturbing lineage filled with murder, war, oppression, greed, and power. It seemed nothing like the serene white bearded man I heard of in Sunday school. What Jesus had started as a novel revolution eventually reverted to the same corruption he condemned and attempted to change. And so I walked away from a tradition that scared me more than enriched my spirit. No longer willing to associate myself with people that seem so easily to forget to love, act with compassion.

Why is a hell needed? Who does its existence truly serve? What use for hell does god have anyway? To make nonbelievers suffer forever, is god that much of a sadist? I think if god is like Jesus, then god would see no need to act from anger, resentment, betrayal but rather love, compassion. We suffer now so what good for it to occur in another life? Such a shift in thought, in doctrine, is proving difficult, but more than that, it shows the nature of those that turn away from these ideas. It reveals their true religious selves.

I have a feeling Jesus would preach a similar inclusive message to the world. No need to strike fear into a heart. No need to slaughter one’s hope. To condemn and guilt. Act with love, empathy, compassion, and what evolves from such pure intention and action can be nothing but good.

Opposition to Prop 8

I almost stayed home. At my computer, editing away, I had already grown tired. Up early, two shoots complete, I just wanted to relax until Klash that evening. But something in me wrenched. Get up. Go. Take the camera. And I fought it with poor excuse. Then the mind turns on me with such scathing words to the self. Fake! Words and no action! What are your reasons? A quick look at the clock, fifteen minutes until gathering at Liberty Square, I grab my camera naked without its bag, and hop into the car to drive Downtown.

How glad I am for my blunt truthed mind. To be a part of a day, of a march, of a moment with those strangers who were really just my close friends in guise. Even without introduction, is each not still my brother, my sister, my friend, a reflection of me? And how potent it was.

“Gay, straight, black or white, we deserve equal rights…” and we march. Signs held high, a Southern born snake flag that boasts Don’t Tread on Me. We march. Young, experienced, white, black, male, female, straight, gay. This is my brother. This is my sister. This is my friend. This is my lover. In their eyes I see ALL. How can I not but love?

And we march. Horns honking in agreement. Slurs declaring us godless people. Some get out of passenger seats and join us. These are the voices of the unrested, of the diligent, of the hopeful. Open your eyes and ears. Hear our words. Extend an empathetical thought to try and understand. It’s quite simple. One sign said it all…The Gay Agenda: 1. Equality 2. See item one.

This is America rising. Rise up before it’s too late.

Persepolis

I first heard this word from a woman in admissions at the Art Institute, who in her earnest speech to convince me to attend, diverted to more interesting topics. In my last meeting with her, we spoke of art, religion, travel, and Persepolis.

Again, I was reacquainted with this when a friend informed me he was in process of reading it. So, finally, Friday night I found myself succumbing to a Starbucks craving, and while walking around I stumbled upon it, swept it up, and purchased it. But it wouldn’t be until Saturday night with a dead internet that I would turn the first page, and I closed it 2/3 through to finally sleep.

Simplification entails a beauty and genius that is often unnoticed. It is never how long the story can be, but how well it is crafted, whittled down to necessity, an enlivened finesse. Any writer will tell you that a simple sentence can inflict great agony upon the mind and hand. Because nothing should be wasted, no word without purpose. I find that one can tell when a writer has become successful because the books become more obese, the editing hand lax due from a freedom reaped from sales and profit. In my Theories of Religion course, I went through a phase where I thought many articles were unwarranted, and began leaving many out of my essays. One day, I went to my professor’s small office with hovering book cases and stacks of papers to retrieve an essay. He asked what was wrong with me, my writing was leaving out words, it seemed odd to him. I explained I thought some articles were frivolous, but I couldn’t quite win him over. In the end he told me the paper deserved an A-, but at the time, CofC’s grading system hadn’t incorporated a minus system. So he decided to give me a B+ rather than an A. I would have rather he omitted his reasonings for my grade.

In regards to mastering simplicity, Persepolis is a delightful example, but in a method I’m not accustomed to. It is a biography of a woman who grew up in Iran during the Islamic revolution and Iraq war, but her words are accompanied by comic strips. The merging of nonfiction with art is a fine marriage in this case. Only the words needed are provided, and all else is conveyed within the black and white sketches, shades of dichotomy that can prove quite powerful in particular moments. A face half shadowed can be poignant and rattle the nerves.

But, what I adore the most is the woman herself, Marjane. She is blunt, abrupt, careless, intelligent, crass, vulgar, revolutionary, passionate, rebellious, sensual, prude, lost, and found. All within circumstances that many will never know.

It reveals a flip-side perspective on various issues. The methodologies and goals of the Islamic regime seemed unsurprisingly similar to Christian extremist in the U.S. And if anyone wants to know why my heart is greatly filled with joy by our nation’s President-elect, it is because it restored my faith in the people of this nation, that they do not desire the road a conservative party has paved for years and with each step, has worked towards stripping citizens of rights. I hope in my lifetime I do not find myself living to see a Christian regime usurp the government and people’s rights like the theocracy Marjane witnessed and lived with.

And Marjane is critical of it all. When asked why she doesn’t like wearing a headscarf, she replies that if hair was meant to stir such passion within men, that Allah would have surely made everyone bald. The wit and insightful rejoinder made me burst in laughter, practically applauding while covered in my sheets.

But I also recommend this book because it does give a perspective of Westerners that needs to be seen. In Persepolis, Westerners are the foreigners, the exotic other, and the actions of these people reveal much about European and U.S. cultures. It deconstructs the sense of familiar one has with his or her own culture to view it as an outsider would.

This novel makes one think…and how a mind deserves to be shaken.