An Invocation of the Sacred
Things I've learned whilst moving and sitting
Ah, the passing of weeks.
A fleeting decade in the realm of Substack.
Substack; our beloved, long-form, reflective writing and writer’s space. Here we meet each other at the depths of ourselves. The natural rhythms of growth and rest are embraced, in stark contrast to the ceaseless demands of Instagram's ever-hungry gaze.
Here, on Substack, the aim is not clawing out hour-to-hour relevance, but to embrace the cycles of life—periods of creative flurry, but also the natural spells of hibernation, incubation, and lignification—that strengthening period that allows us to stand more upright and withstand society’s compressing forces.
Not all who wander are lost
I have wandered and sought, but also sat and observed.
Upon my motorcycle, I ventured far from home, traversing monotonous English motorway miles, 184 to be exact.
Ah, 184 miles from the shelter of familiarity, venturing into the unknown.
For the first time since my illness, I dared to venture beyond the periphery of family care.
Like many who, struck by grave sickness or personal crisis, I found myself halted. Halted in myself. It wasn’t possible to be me and be well and so I had to choose.
In retrospect, it would be hard to describe these human ordeals as mere accidents but intentional crucibles of metamorphosis.
I’d already claimed my "night of the soul" (or so I believed), almost a decade ago. Transitioning from the life of a sea soldier to that of a yoga teacher, I assumed I had at least set out on my spiritual journey. And perhaps I had, just not in the way that I thought I had. Not in the beads and the Malas, not in the calling myself a healer or a shaman, not even in the pleasantries and the acts of kindness.
Allow me to transport you to a time nearly a decade ago when life's tempests buffeted me relentlessly. Within the span of six tumultuous months, two beloved family members departed from this earthly realm, a job was lost, a home forsaken, a marriage dissolved... and amidst it all, a profound revelation: Claire, my dear Claire, would soon grace our lives with new beginnings, with life itself.
Fighting pirates (my day job) was but a respite compared to the trials unfolding within the sanctuary of home. The Holmes-Rahe stress assessment, an oracle of sorts, indicated a staggering score of over 300 points—a clear portent of an 80% chance of health collapse within the following two years. Ah, the delicate interplay between mental and physical well-being, a nuanced tapestry of interconnectedness.
For me, it was the anguish of the mind that bore the greatest weight, as if carved by the chisel of destiny itself. A profound sense of depression engulfed my being, a sombre melody echoing through the chambers of my soul.
Yet, my most recent dalliance with destruction manifested primarily in the physical realm. Weakness consumed my form, an unwelcome companion breeding anxiety within. The weight of inability, the sorrow of forsaken activities, the inability to partake in the joys and duties of family life—these were the strains that tormented my spirit. And yet, amidst the tempest, the resolve within me remained unyielding.
Fear, tinged with sadness, permeated my consciousness. Yet, escape was not the path I chose. Rather, I found solace in turning toward the very essence of my existence, dare I say…my connection with the Divine.
And so, dear reader, I share with you a creative offering, inspired by my journey of turning toward the sacred, much like the teachings of John Moriarty, the Irish philosopher who illuminated the depths of our interconnectedness.
How do we feel about the word ‘God’?
In the land I was born into, religion and politics have long been estranged bedfellows, seldom intertwined in the minds of those who wield influence. The majority, it seems, view religion and God as relics of a bygone era, relegated to the annals of history, much like the monarchs who grace our shores. Bishops and priests emerge from hibernation only for formal ceremonies, their significance diluted by the currents of modernity.
The God I invoke, dear reader, is assuredly not your God, nor is it The God. It transcends the image of a grand, bearded figure perched upon ethereal clouds, although it may manifest in such form. No, the God of my understanding is formless, unencumbered by the trappings of human conception.
Oh, to ponder the fortune of being born into a family rich in religious tradition! Yet, I find solace in the fact that my path has been forged through personal exploration, unburdened by inherited dogmas. It is a journey of authenticity, one that weaves the tapestry of my soul according to the rhythms of my own heart.
Within the United Kingdom, religion has receded to the periphery of societal consciousness, cast aside as a relic of a bygone era. Yet, within the vastness of my being, a flame flickers, igniting the yearning for communion with the sacred.
And so, I respond to the call of the divine, patiently awaiting its arrival. Even though I know that God may not manifest in a tangible form, I wait still, offering words that feel unwieldy on my tongue, a testament to the limitations of language when approaching the ineffable.
Each day, I find myself drawn to the church, not venturing within its hallowed walls, for I am not yet prepared for that encounter. Instead, I settle upon a humble bench outside, finding solace in the shelter of towering stone walls. To my front, two ancient yew trees lean in, as if seeking to share their ancient wisdom. As I close my eyes, the church's presence endures, an ethereal backdrop to my contemplation.
In this sacred space, I meditate, accompanied by the chorus of crows, rooks, ravens, and jackdaws. They are my steadfast companions, guardians of this realm of introspection. Their raucous calls envelop the stillness, protecting it from intrusion. I sometimes catch myself yearning for a moment of silence, a respite from their ceaseless chatter. Yet, in that silence, I would be left alone to confront the tumult of my own thoughts, unguarded. And so, I welcome their persistent clamour, for it mirrors the ceaseless thrashing of my own mind, until the stillness seeps in.
Being called to God, I find myself pondering the source of that call. Is it an external beckoning or an inner yearning? Does it necessitate detachment from the earthly realm, a separation from my beloved family?
In the grand tapestry of my earthly callings—the obligations to pay bills, acquire a safe family car, advocate for the environment, and simply answer the daily summons to dinner—the call to God whispers softly, barely audible amidst the cacophony. It is a gentle, subtle beckoning that resonates within the depths of my soul.
And so, I yearn for the call to God to grace my existence once again tomorrow. I pray that my ears remain attuned to its faint melody, that my heart remains open to its sacred vibrations. For in answering that call, in embracing the divine presence, I find solace, guidance, and an unfolding of purpose beyond the mundanity of daily existence.
May the dance of life continue, with its trials and transformations, leading us ever closer to the realm of the sacred. May we heed the call, however faint, and embark on the pilgrimage of the soul, for it is in that journey that we discover the boundless depths of our being and the interconnectedness of all existence.
In the spirit of John Moriarty, may our hearts be open to the mystic wonders that await us, and may we forever dance to the rhythm of the divine song that calls us home.
