somewhere between Marx and Taoism

Karl Marx said that religion was the opiate of the masses; this great placating practice of ease for the common people- a relatable, organized structure which would allow explanation and hope in the midst of the complexity and difficulties of life.
Ram Dass said every religion is the product of the conceptual mind attempting to describe the mystery. It's another man-made concept in which we can box our trivial attempts at making sense of the world around us.
Jesus said religion was meant to be a mindset-action relationship of caring for others and being love embodied.

It is interesting to think of the concept of spirituality in general- this new idea of moving from stodgy "religion" to just "being spiritual". Perhaps more useful to try and find the middle ground, though.

Marx, albeit the socialist he was, did not seem too far off from our Western example of Religion today. He claimed it as a man made, structured for common use and control of the masses; a highly organized system above all else. It would appear that the popular church format does not seem to differ drastically from this basic concept. Not that pastors are power mongers out to pray people into submission to the political place of the church in society- but with the surge of mega-churches and the commodity of religious ideas (books, magazines, music, t-shirts, retreats, etc.), it is interesting to step back and see people fall into their respective places within the grid-work. More outstanding in my mind is the very scheduling of Religion: church on Sunday, small group on Wednesday, pray before dinner. We have very specific timeslots available for exemplary actions of our faith and very often there is a void of time between all those where we more associate ourselves with the ownership and membership within Religion and fall short of leading lives that enact those principles and beliefs.

Dass brings this similar idea to the table, that all religions (not just the old time Christianity/Catholicism that Marx was seeing dominant at the time) are mere expressions of our trying to work out in a tangible way what in the world is going on. We go crazy when we cannot recall the name of a friend, movie, song title, book author- it maddens us to not be able to associate a NAME with subjects of our lives. When Jesus rose from the grave and Mary went to find him- she spoke to him and did not even recognize his face until he called her by name. This NEED to associate, to understand, to NAME things is what puts our world into a sensible, tangible understanding in our minds. Isn't religion- all forms- just the desperate act of this pattern for the things outside of our physical understanding, just "the conceptual mind attempting to describe the mystery"? ((real play for devil's advocate here: can we not then say that no religion is right, no religion is wrong- if everything is just this feeble attempt to name the world, name the spiritual, name the unnamed around us?))

And between the structure we create, the Mystery clearly around us, and our desperate need to know it's Name: there is just this call-
To be love. Know love.
Be. Love.

We are, after all, called to be lovers- bold in broken places.

of incense and tapestries

It’s a night for candles.
A dark blue tapestry of marching elephants covering the pale white blinds on my small third story apartment window- so that I may not see the street lights. It’s a night for an absence of streetlight and an abundant presence of candlelight- that tame, cradling glow that wraps around you with warmth and nostalgia of campfires, quiet Kenyan nights and grandma’s singular vanilla candle on the stairs down to her basement library.
That library of old school books, the jar of buttons, the stationary bike in the corner. The strange green carpet and the blue glass bird on the windowsill in the kitchen.

It’s a night for incense.
For lighting nag champa with the flamingo-print lighter from the grocery store in Mukono. It’s a night to let the smoke and scent swirl around the room- bring back the rides in the car with that roommate, that year, that time, that hard time, those laughing, singing, joyous times with Broadway showtunes and vanilla incense wedged in the airvents of that car.

It’s a night for red wine and M&Ms, for staring at the elephants from around the world that have traveled in suitcases and hiking backpacks to come perch on my bookshelves- ambassadors of travels past.

It’s a night of a lazy Sunday with a morning fashion photo shoot on the coast, and feminist films with the roommates. It’s a night of looking around and relishing in the experiences that have brought me to this. The post cards saved, the treasures collected from corner shops in Maine, the quilt my mother made, the painting from a friend, the books that carry me ever further into myself and ever away.

It’s a night to look around.
To open your eyes.
To welcome your self into the coziness of the candlelight.

You surround yourself with the tokens and lessons and scars and pictures from your journey that has brought you through all the places you’ve been to the place you are—embrace the imagery.
Stack the books and climb through the adventure that was reading through school, reading and growing up with Harry Potter, reading in hammocks in the summer.
Light the match and smell the memory of the painted murals on your ceiling, the music that got you through, the nights with your sisters eating éclairs on the side of the bathtub and doing each other’s hair.
Drink the wine and think to all the people at the bars, the dances with your friends, the clothing swaps between closets before every event, every dinner, every date, every interview, every night out.

It’s a night for smiling.