Funny Little Hybrid Child

I am a funny little hybrid child; currently studying Buddhist philosophy and practicing yoga, believing fully in the earth-based spirituality offered in Paganism, and a Christ-doubting, but God-loving, Lutheran Christian.

It works for me.

My dad is a Lutheran pastor, which means that I always get a good dose of Christianity when I'm home to visit. We Lutherans are "grace-lovers," which is to say that we believe that there is nothing we can do or say to make us more or less loved by the divine. I embrace the idea of grace with open arms, but as a perfectionist constantly trying to prove my worth, I must admit that I still cannot understand how grace could extend to a being as "imperfect" as myself.

The psychologist Carl Jung emphasizes that it is only when we fully love and embrace our "dark parts" that our lights can shine freely in this world. Similarly, the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron writes continuously about the importance of accepting ourselves as we are - wherever we are - however we might be. This means opening to all of our pieces - the broken and dirty ones, the cravings, the addictions, the imperfections - without hardening ourselves against them, wishing they were gone, or trying to cover them up. In a word, trying to love ourselves with the same grace my dad believes in so surely, the same foundational concept inherent in all of my funny hybrid spiritual practices. Accept myself as I am, know that I need not change or do anything to be "better," "more worthy," or "more loved." Live with confidence in grace and impermanence, accepting imperfection and pushing nothing away in this world's experience.

My job is to be open. To be open enough that the universe and the divine can sing through me, blowing through the channel of my being freely and unrestricted. My constant worries block the spirits from flowing through me, obstructing the song that I was meant to produce. When I worry about my body being perfect enough to be worthy of use, I block the channel and destroy my song. When I try to control the tune, tempo, quality, and audience, everything seems to fall apart, and I lose the divine grace that was meant to flow through me without my constant intrusion, doubts, and worries.

I've been worried a lot today - more than usual, I've been acutely aware of what I'm eating, how much I've exercised, and how much weight I've gained. Instead of dropping into the present moment, reflecting on my breath and the impermanent sensations I am experiencing, I've been stuck in a constant string of "what ifs." What if I get fat? What if I don't find a job when I move to Colorado? What if I can't find the true purpose of my life, and wander aimlessly forever? When will I get to live deep in the mountains? When won't I be trapped in debt? When will I be able to fully release from all of this future-boding and rest in the grace of this present moment?

In the middle of all of this chest tightening, breath confining anxiety, I picked up my dad's devotional book and read this - a favorite of mine from when I studied Christianity with slightly more fervor than I do today:

"Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ."
Phil. 4: 6-7

I suppose this is a similar vein to the Alcoholics Anonymous foundational thought that a "higher power" is needed to get through any addiction. I love control; I've been resisting the idea that I need help to get through my eating disorder for years. I've wanted to recover alone, prove my strength and discipline, and I've refused all sorts of intervention (both human and divine) with the stubborn resolution that I could prove that I am good enough by recovering on my own.

And now, I'm being held like a small child, fed by my parents who fix my food and keep me company. I sleep during the day and have monitored exercise periods. I've started relying entirely upon what my mom and dad say about the world - when they tell me that I haven't eaten too much, I try to trust them, and rest in the peace that comes from releasing control.

I guess that it's finally time to start relinquishing control on a larger level, trusting that there is something bigger taking care of me - something bigger, even, than my dear parents. Trusting, maybe, that if I stop worrying, the universe will hold me, and that the divine God will in fact sing through me once I stop trying so hard. And the song might just be peace, a peace that passes all understanding because it comes without being earned or deserved. It comes as a song of grace, once I release enough to open myself to the universal instrument I was meant to be.

And as a funky hybrid child, born of many spiritual persuasions, all of this seems to fit and make sense. All things are impermanent, our experience is ours to feel and not protect ourselves against. I am connected to all things - the earth, wind, water, and fire - and am part of all things. My song is not mine, but simply a sound produced in the channel of being I currently occupy. It's a song of grace, impermanence, and light. It's a song of peace and letting go, of accepting and loving the instrument I am, with all of its perfect flaws and imperfect desires for control.

So tonight, I sing. Wild hopes.