At the beginning of this week I taught Vision Quest, my first ever camp for adults. This afternoon I'm leaving for a three day dance retreat featuring a fire pit and a crystal bowl bath though frankly I only know what one of those things are. I have always been a seeker in search of the extraordinary, hunting for God in ecstasy and LSD, men and mountain tops. My problem has never been finding a spiritual high. That's easy. The problem has been the inevitable low, the depressing headfirst crash back into reality, the extreme gap between the thing I’ve set out to do and the return to the life I tried to leave behind. Many of my spiritual experiences have not been unlike getting drunk, making 10 new best friends, and figuring out the meaning of life only to pass out face down on the couch and waking up hungover, throwing up and covered in sharpie.
The miracle right now is that the line between the divine and the ordinary, the sacred and the profane, is blurring. At camp we gave ourselves and each other sacred names and by the end of two days together our names didn’t seems so weird. We embodied them. At home, feeding our bearded dragon worms and crickets is our virgin sacrifice. Two cats and a dog all on the bed is a the Holy Trinity. Morning coffee is our Japanese tea ceremony. Netflix documentaries are exotic explorations into high culture around the globe. I really get back to nature when I mow the lawn and it takes pretty high end yoga just to get out of bed. I might still love going on a retreat or sitting in ceremony, but honestly I’d rather my encounter with the divine come over the kitchen sink than in the Himalayas. The holy land is best at home.