A young girl, face obscured by her hair, sat hugging her knees on a misty woodland path. Photo: By Andrew Neel on Unsplash.
Feeling the pinch: Kate Graham on finding a deeper connection
‘Spirituality is not a “get out of jail free” card when it comes to feelings.’
What use is spirituality when you are really upset?
That’s an angry way of putting it, but when the proverbial has hit the fan – when your world has turned upside down, and you are feeling rejected, abandoned, angry, fearful, desolate, sad, furious and sad again – is spirituality, and spiritual practice, any help at all? Is there a Quakerly response? Can one have all these feelings and still connect with a sense of something greater? That’s the question facing me right now, and I would like the answer to be yes.
From my work with refugees, I know that having a faith, and allowing yourself to be supported by that faith, can be an essential part of human survival. I have seen again and again how refugees’ faith has helped them through their pain and loss. The people I met were fully aware of their pain and dislocation, and their faith gave them something to hold on to when everything else was lost. It gave them a spiritual practice and structure of regular prayer, and it gave them a connection to a wider community, whether close to hand or scattered over the world.
But there is a difference between a spirituality that is deeply embodied and connected to our pain and suffering, and the desire to shortcut the pain of human feelings to land straight into the arms of a higher body or consciousness. Wouldn’t it be nice to flick a switch and remove all my pain, all the unbearable feelings, and replace them with the feeling of being loved and secure (and not angry)? Therapists call this shortcutting a spiritual bypass, and while it sounds extremely attractive, it can really only be a temporary coping mechanism, similar to taking medication. As a therapist myself, I am acutely aware of this.
When we bypass our feelings to go straight to a more comfortable spiritual or religious place, we give ourselves the implicit message: ‘Don’t feel.’ This means we miss out on the gifts that these feelings bring: how anger fuels determination and resilience, how vulnerability and sadness allow the openness to ask for help. Even jealousy has a place, showing how much we do care. We need to start with our feelings, and acknowledge them. And not just our feelings, but the sensations in our bodies: our taut muscles, shallow breath, tight gut, shot digestion, insomnia, and the loss (or gain) of weight in undesirable places.
But maybe I’m not asking the right question.
‘Spirituality isn’t an either/or,’ says a wise friend. ‘It’s about being real. Being connected. Really feeling whatever is going on.’
This connectedness is challenging when the feelings, thoughts and sensations on offer are unwelcome and uncomfortable. Spirituality is not a ‘get out of jail free’ card when it comes to feelings.
She continues: ‘I have an image of you walking in a dark, wild, scary wood, alone and afraid. And from time to time, you come to a warm, well-lit cottage, where friends invite you in, listen to you, give you food and rest. And then, feeling just a little bit stronger, a little less alone, you continue back into the wood.’
Friends have listened, held me, fed me, been angry for me, been sad with me, and have offered me love and companionship as I stumble along this journey. Often I have felt ill-equipped to cope with the dark wood, not knowing quite where any path I find is leading, just recognising that this seemingly-scary wood is surprisingly full of friendly cottages. I feel alone but I am learning to trust.
‘When we bypass our feelings to go straight to a more comfortable place, we give ourselves the implicit message: “Don’t feel.”’
One such ‘cottage’ was an old friend who I have known for nearly twenty-five years. We have supported each other through heartbreak and joy. One recent conversation we had ranged over the memories of the past, the pain of the present, and the uncertainty of future. She listened deeply and I felt that deeper connection. It calmed my stressed body enough to sleep well for the first time in weeks, and to wake up with just a glimmer of hope that there might be a future out there for me.
As I venture through this wood, I come to realise that these difficult feelings include the love I felt, and still feel, for my partner. And that’s a hard one, because he is leaving me. It’s an important one to feel because he is the father of our child. He has been part of, and loved by, my wider family for twenty years. We have friends that we have grown alongside as a family. Amid the craziness of the world at the moment, that seems like a pool of love and friendship that it would be a pity to drain any more than needed.
Ignatian spirituality talks about ‘desolation’ as we move away from God, and ‘consolation’ as we turn and move closer. In the connections with the good friends who are patiently supporting me, I can start to have the strength to turn away from the fear that keeps me stuck in desolation and start to look towards the possibility of hope, trust, love and faith.
As a Quaker I am asked to consider: ‘What does Love require of me?’ I can ask this question without, as yet, being ready to hear the answer – though glimmerings of it are starting to percolate my anger and distress.
In his poem ‘The guest house’, Jalaluddin Rumi advises readers to welcome all feelings and emotions, however difficult:
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Rumi’s Sufi wisdom has come down through the ages to guide us, just as it guided people 800 years ago. So when the proverbial does hit the fan, and God seems to have gone out of the window, along with future security and the family home, don’t despair. There will be a way forward.
