When adversity strikes, we turn to a higher power; it’s human to do as such. For many that means a reliance on their god or gods, but where do you turn when religion isn’t your cup of tea? Drugs, sex, alcohol, or work? Maybe an In ‘n’ Out cheeseburger followed by a carton of ice cream topped with an entire plate of double fudge brownies? You know…hypothetically speaking, of course.
The problem with all of these, however, is the issue of displacement and disassociation. When trauma hits us with the weight of a tsunami, it’s OUR bodies, OUR minds, and OUR hearts which are wounded. And seeing as the blow came from an outside source, why would we want to look outward for a remedy? The way I see it, we can either curl into the fetal position and hope our favored deity rights the grievous wrong that’s been leveraged against us, or we can darn ourselves anew from the shreds that remain because nothing is more infuriating to the evils at hand than a success story. And no one will knit us whole but ourselves.
Personally, the Bible shows me nothing but fables and I’m not familiar enough with any other religious texts to proffer an opinion either way. Drugs are reserved as a celebratory phenomenon. The bottom of an empty bottle serves as an impotent and temporary ether. Sex brings more complications than clarity. Work, well…exhaustion helps but doesn’t last.
In place of all the aforementioned usual suspects, I find reading Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself helps me find the strength to love whatever I have left of myself. Sounds cheesey, but you’ll get what I’m talking about after you read these passages.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be
ceremonious?
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hari,
counsel’d with doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a
barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing
means.
I already know what you’re thinking: what’s the difference between being inspired by secular poetry and seeking salvation through theology? My preferred coping mechanism reminds me that no one is more important than myself in terms of searching for fulfillment and prosperity (prosperity as a larger concept, beyond material prospects or conquests); I work hardest to appease my Self, and not an imagined god I know only through scriptures and chastisement. It also reminds me that my world is concomitantly written for and by me, all I have to do to experience it fully is pick up my pen and don my bifocals.
But, then again, this is just how I operate, how I manage to pull myself out of this sick sad place of degenerative greed and mindless progression. To each his own. But I’ll tell you one thing: once you go Whitman you never go back…
