Has spirituality become our favorite form of snotty laziness?

We go to expensive mystical retreats in far away lands, and come home miraculously “transformed” and “enlightened.” We compulsively attend yoga classes and use poses like happy pills to self-medicate our pains.

And, rather than actually experiencing life, in all of it’s sh*tty, raw amazingness, we wax poetic about how present we are and how we’re just so in touch with the whispering heartbeat of the entire world.

We pretend there’s no such thing as a crappy day or a bad mood.

We fill our shelves with Eastern philosophy books that we read once (not even the whole way through) and then proceed to display them oh-so-proudly for years to come.

‘Cause they look pretty, right?

‘Cause they make us look evolved, right?

And, then, from the sheer effort of simply housing those sacred books under our roof, we somehow become soooo knowledgeable and start telling everyone we know to meditate for at least ten minutes a day.

Meanwhile, we don’t actually meditate at all.

Meanwhile, we don’t even know ourselves at all.

Meanwhile, we’re scared as hell, struggling hard to be human.

Can we be more honest?

Can we be more in touch with life, for real?

Because this life, it’s beautiful and painful, all at once.

It’s not easy, for any of us.

Have we forgotten about being human?

Because telling someone who’s having a brutal panic attack or going through tremendous grief to just be present and surrender and meditate—is not actually helpful.

It’s lazy.

Rather than actually bucking up and holding space for someone else’s pain, we give them two cents worth of pseudo spiritual advice and call it a day.

Is that being spiritual?

I don’t know; I think it’s being shitty.

If we really want to strive towards something sacred, we have to learn to feel where someone else is and sense what they need in that moment.

But, before we do that, we have to feel where we are.

Take right now.

Where are you?

Where’s your breath?

Your heartbeat?

Stay for a second and linger in the thump, thump, thumping of your chest.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Because, when we actually get to know ourselves and swim in the shattered seas of our identity, we won’t be so arrogant.

It’s not possible.

We’ll see all of our yucky jealousy, fear, and insecurity, and be utterly shocked with humility.

Sobering, huh?

And, then, only then—can we begin to cultivate real compassion, not the kind that we pretend to read about in those fancy, dust-collecting books.

We can drink down juicy wisdom and succulent understanding, rather than lecturing others with complex intellectual concepts that sound so pretty to say.

Let’s stop with the spiritual comparisons.

You’re not a better person if you meditate (or not), and you’re certainly not a better person if you constantly yammer on about how enlightened you are.

We are all imperfect, brilliant, sh*tty humans.

All of us.

We’re in this together.

So—why don’t we do the challenging inner work and get to know ourselves for real, instead of sitting on high horses of phony spirituality, with gluten-free bread in our hands and hundred dollar yoga pants on our asses?

Are you shaking?

Good.

Me too.

We’re in this.

Together.

 

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Relephant Read:

How to Love a Narcissistic Smartphone-addled Trustafarian Immature Childwoman.

 

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Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Renee Jahnke

Image: Canon in 2D-Flickr