Friday, September 28, 2012

Searching for the spirit.

This is a continuation of my last blog, if you haven't read it then read it here: Losing My Religion

Now for part 2:


Berkeley. George Berkeley.

You don't know him? Well, maybe you do. Go look him up. He's one of the philosophers I encountered in my Philosophy 101 class. He blew my mind. He's entire philosophy consists of the idea that there is no physical world, only a mental world. Nothing exists. Or at least we can't tangibly prove anything exists as our senses and experiences are interpreted through the mind. That's some pretty heavy stuff. My little 19-year-old mind reeled at that idea. For weeks I felt disjointed and awkward. Couple that with delving into Buddhist philosophy, particularly the concept of non-self, you'd think my mind would explode.

I survived. I flirted with those things for a while and managed the best I could with what I had been given philosophically speaking. I become more and more involved in music at the time and I found solace in composing. I needed that. I don't know if I need it today, which is why I may have stopped composing. I searched for answers. Yeah, I think I even said a prayer or two during what consisted of the next 3 years after my freshman year in college.

I read what I could, interacted with those around me, primarily LDS folks at the time. I did go to the LDS church a few times during this period. I thought about becoming active, there was an influence there that was definite. Two things led me both down and away from this course of action. One was an encounter with a Hare Krishna monk. He was collecting donations on the corner near the Fine Arts Center at U.S.U on a beautiful day. I had just got paid, so was flush with cash. Had just eaten, so was flush with the joy of a full belly, ok I did have cash, most were in the bank, but there was a 20 dollar bill in my pocket. He thanked me and gave me three books that he was giving out in exchange for the donations: two cookbooks (both of them vegan as the Hare Krishna's tend to be) and the Bhagavad Ghita. I read a good deal of the Bhagavad Ghita, probably more than any other religious text I own actually. Reading it I saw parallels where parallels don't necessarily exist. I take it for what it really is now, a religious text with some inspirational messages and some absurd-ism. Like most/all of them.

The other incident, I'm not sure what set it off: well maybe I do, I had just listened to a concert in the concert hall, I was feeling particularly spiritual. Not the same thing as faithful or religious, perhaps you could and should understand it as aware of my being. My self. I sat in the hall long after the musicians had left. They hadn't, nor were they ready to lock it up. It felt serene. Peaceful. Right. I've only other times I've achieved that feeling is after performing in a play. And even then it's far between. I resolved myself then and there to become active and church and try and go on a mission. Or at least I thought about it until I realized that it was foolish for me to think that. I wanted to capture that feeling. That awareness and serenity. It wasn't going to happen by going to church. I never get the warm fuzzies there.

The thing that finally broke the camel's back as far as religion goes was a man named Ludwig Wittgenstein. In my 4th year at the university, I come up with the misplaced idea of trying to complete two majors: one in philosophy and one in music, as well as working 32 hours a week. I was talking about 15 credits (wholly unrealistic) and doing poorly in one or two classes while doing ok in the rest. One class I did not do well in (primarily because I missed some tests and an assignment I believe, not to mention several classes) was contemporary philosophy. The first philosopher we read was Wittgenstein. He blew my mind. Even if I only have an inkling of what the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus was about it, like Buddhism, and Berkeley before it, made me see the world differently. Wittgenstein, by many accounts, wasn't an atheist, in fact, he was deeply spiritual but he saw it as a private matter, ne'er to be aired in public. The line that got me, the line that is the core of the book (at least one of the core ideas) is "That which we can not speak of, we must pass over in silence." I still, to a point, hold that as a very deep and meaningful perspective. That line is what made me agnostic.

Well, that's an oversimplification if ever there was one. That line made me want to learn more about Wittgenstein, his philosophy, and his thoughts. I owe a lot to the late Chuck Johnson for this. He was an avid follower of Wittgenstein. An expert if there ever was one. I got a D in the class, but it led me to several other classes where Wittgenstein was one of the core emphasis.

Reading Wittgenstein, and later Hoffer, and several studies on psychology, physics, and evolution, becoming very good friends with many pagans and encountering Jungian philosophy and the ideas of Joseph Campbell my attitude has shifted. I am an agnostic. I even consider myself, for all intents and purposes, an atheist. But I still quest for the spiritual. That self-awareness and being in tune with the 'other' the subconscious, or the collective unconscious. I get it now and then: during some movies, during walks, on stage, or even after closing a play.

There's a misconception that equates spirituality with faith, with religion. One can have faith, and be religious without ever encountering any kind of real spirituality. That's the rub, isn't it? I have said before that I find all religion and faith silly. I do, but some people do get a spiritual 'feeling' from those things. That works for them, and who am I to criticize them for it. I may not agree with their dogma, but I can't criticize the solace they find in it.

I'm going to leave this topic for now. Next up something less rambly and more... to the point.

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posted by F.G. Shaw @ 4:01 PM 0 comments

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Losing my religion.

I was raised LDS. Mormon. At least sort of.

My parents were never particular active in church. There was a time both my father and mother would attend, my mother had been raised Mormon, my father had not. For both of then, and my mother today, it was an opportunity for them to touch on their spirituality. Not quite the words they would use, but a good interpretation of it. "It makes me feel good." Simple enough. My father quit going when I was very young, it was several years after that before my mother quit. I remember being young and in Primary, as well as attending lessons about baptism, which I did do. It was a year, maybe two, that my mother stopped going regularly. I would attend occasionally after this, going with the neighbors, but soon it felt like a chore and even I stopped going. 

Sundays weren't about church in my house, at least not once I got into my tween's and teens. My father often cut wood on Sundays, and I would usually go with him. I suppose it's possible that my mother went to church when both my father and I were out cutting wood, but it seems unlikely. My father found solace out cutting wood. He said he felt more in touch with God out there then he ever did at the church house. I'm not sure my father was ever baptized, I know he identified with the LDS church a bit more than his older sister or his mother who were both born again Christians. His two oldest siblings also converted to the LDS church, my aunt Evelyn was active till her death. My uncle A.D. is still quite active. As for aunt Sharon, the aunt who is born again, still identifies as such. 

As for my own path, not being particularly active, and having some slight conflict at family reunions (not extreme, but arguments did arise) I identified as LDS never the less. I attended church sporadically, mostly going so I would be allowed to play on the church basketball team. Yes, there was a time I was nearly interested in sports. Two things happened that made me question my faith, or lack of faith (several things did, but two in particular during my teen years). 

The first was an incident very few in the family talk about: my father, on a cocktail of different pain medication and other drugs prescribed to him by a fairly incompetent doctor, had a long bout of hallucinations over the course of a single night. Most of these were religious in origin, but many were, in hind-site, nonsensical. He had two clergy men come to the house, and LDS bishop and the pastor from the local evangelical christian church and spoke to them at length about stuff he was seeing. I'm not sure what the men made of it. I was shaken to my very core, as was everyone in the house that night (if I remember it was primarily my mother). Watching somebody hallucinate is not particularly fun, despite what some stoners might have you believe (and perhaps the perspective is much different you're hallucinating as well I don't know.) We got through that night, my father quietly apologized for what happened the next day, though I remain unsure to this day what he was apologizing for exactly. I've forgiven him. The family doesn't talk about it. 

The second incident was, my father's death. My father was never in particularly good health during my life, he broke his back when he was in his late 20's and though he had a series of surgeries it only did so much. He was on disability for a while, taken off in the 80's during the Reagan administration, and forced to go back to work doing odd jobs and taking care of the family farm. He died on August 6th 1995, a few short weeks before I was to leave for college. 

I was adrift at this point, not sure what to believe in. There was one point, about a week into school (I had been up there two weeks due to marching band) where I called my mother and told her to come and get me. I had got some money from her the day before via mail and had put it into my wallet. I lost the wallet. It was a couple hundred bucks and I absolutely felt at a loss. I knew she didn't have it, I knew the wallet was long gone. My mother told me that we'd figure a way out of it, and that there was no way I was coming home. A few hours after that phone call another resident in the dorm knocked on my door and returned my wallet. I had left it in the laundry room he had found it and brought it back to me. 

It was that year I took my first philosophy class. I remember my uncle, when I mentioned to him on break that I was taking the class, expressing concern that I might question my faith. (I had none at that point, though I didn't realize it then). I loved the class, and excelled in it. I can not say that trend continued to this day but at the time I did well. It was also the year I was introduced to Buddhism. It was something I had a periphery interest in during my high school years but had no means to research in my backwoods little town. I remember reading a chunk of the Buddhist bible during that freshman year, and meeting a friend (Ken, not sure what happened to him) who was of Japanese decent and also a Buddhist. I attended church with him in Ogden on a couple of different occasions and they even lent me some books (which I'm ashamed to say I still have). 

This is what set me on that path. The path I'm currently on. Death, philosophy and Buddhism. I particularly sticky combo. One that I wouldn't reconcile for a few more years. 

To be con't...

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posted by F.G. Shaw @ 10:05 PM 0 comments