Skip to main content
Journey
by Frank Kotowski

     In the religion I follow, Spiritualism, there is often talk about each person’s journey to the next world, the World of Spirit, where we go after physical death, since we believe that life continues for us as spiritual beings devoid of physical matter.  It is in this other world, called the Summerland, that our souls reunite in a more intimate way with God, what we call Infinite Spirit or Infinite Intelligence.
     This is not to say that there is little emphasis on the life here on this physical plane. Spiritualists strongly believe in and emphasize personal responsibility. We “make our own happiness or unhappiness,” as stated in our 7th Principle.  Life is to be embraced with joy and courage and interconnectness with all beings and with the Earth itself.  Understanding those of other faiths and beliefs is an ethical and humanitarian necessity.  Spiritual progression and attunement are certainly goals many of us strive for, but physical pleasures are healthy and life-affirming for most of us. 
     It is a wonderful and exciting experience to be fully engaged with our physical bodies, senses, and other people and our environment. To plant a sweet kiss on a loved one or to receive a warm hug or handshake from someone reminds us that we indeed are living physical lives where most of us are fortunate enough to have active physical senses. Of course, physical sensations include pain in many forms and degrees, the price we pay for our physicality.
     Our memories are often enhanced and recorded by our physical senses: the smell of a fragrant rose, the vision of a sunrise or sunset, the sensual feel of water lapping at your feet at a beach with the accompaniment of the smell of salt and sand.  And some memories burned into our mind include the loving words of those who supported us or the last words of those near their time of death.  Great speeches and poems are remembered that recall our human condition, both sublime and ugly.
     I have a memory of being a young child, playing with a girl down the street.  She was teaching me how to make a mud pie.  I was gloriously happy, until I went to reach for more soil under a shrub and was stung by several yellow jackets in a nest that was hidden by the shrub.  I ran home in intense pain, and the entire neighborhood could hear my screams.
     Our physical lives inform us of our human stories and experiences.  We carry the scars, bruises, and wrinkles of all our physical experiences.   Our physical lives and senses are vehicles to align with our spiritual journey.  As often has been said, we are spiritual beings having physical experiences.  Let us not diminish what we learn on our physical journey from embryo to old age.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Make even these days count

One of the most popular features on a local newscast of a small TV station is something rather surprising. It is a feature called- “The Day of the Week”.  Today is…….. Monday!  The station put forth this as a kind of joke at first, but it was so popular that it became a regular daily addition to the morning newscast.  Apparently, so many of us have lost track of what day it is that we need a reminder. During this stay-at-home time, every day seems to blend into the next.  It is truly difficult to remember how many days we have all been quarantined at home, what the date is and what day of the week it is.  Many of us have a few markers that help- jobs that pause for the weekend, celebrations of Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays- special days of worship.  But even with these, the days seem to bleed into each other like a striped shirt washed in hot water. The period that we are in right now in the Jewish calendar is ironically, a time of counting. A time w...
Compassion On the radio a few days ago there was a piece about refugees arriving by boat to the shores of a country that in the past had been welcoming, but this time people were yelling angrily and running into the water to block the boats from landing.   The boats were full and there were children on board. The turmoil and anger in the crowd was audible. I don’t speak their language, but the reporter said that people blocking the boats were shouting “Go back home. We don’t care about the babies.” I was repulsed. I could not stop thinking about it. “We don’t care about the babies.” What would it take for me to say that? For my friends to say that? My neighbors? Horrible thought, that people I know might be moved to yell at desperate people “We don’t care about the babies.” I started to ask myself how that could happen, what it would feel like to push away needy people and shout “I don’t care about the babies.” Please don’t stop reading when I tell you that suddenly my...
I did not want to write about this virus-time. I did not think I could.  Another piece was in my mind this week, not quite yet taking shape. But when I sat to write, the virus took my attention and I could not wrest it back.   There are useful and funny memes online, and stories of good will and good works, and words of inspiration and comfort. And terrible stories, too.  Mostly at a distance, we have been sharing dance and art and music, facts and opinions, cautionary tales and fairy tales. We miss hugs and doing projects and working and learning together in person. Sometimes we are in a bubble for a while that lets us just be, free of anxiety or fear.  Sometimes we cannot get out of bed.  Sometimes we cannot sleep.  Sometimes we eat all the chocolate and sometimes we eat nothing.  We who are privileged live like this.  We are grateful to the people who work at the jobs we need to have done even in t...