Feelin’ Guilty Spiritual Blues

Something about me: Sometimes when I’m listening to a spiritual talk—what we call “satsang” in the game—and an audience member asks a question, I’ll pause the recording to answer the question myself before hearing the teacher’s answer. Then I compare notes. Is that weird? 🤷🏻‍♂️ Here’s a question presented to Ram Dass in a talk he gave in 1989 that I took the liberty of answering for him.

“I find that at the time I need my practice the most I seem to put it behind me…. And, then I feel guilt or sadness that instead of going toward the comfort that the practice gives me, I have to deal with the guilt that I bypassed it…. How can we get around this?”

Ahhhhh…. The comforting feeling of guilt that washes over us every time we don’t do our practice. Who doesn’t know this feeling like an old friend?

So often we relate to our practice as if it’s a thing that exists “over there.” It’s what happens in the corner of the room we set up, in front of the altar, in church on Sunday. It’s all very organized and very sane. But, spiritual practice is neither organized nor sane. In fact, it’s often the exact opposite. In addition to be a salve, a comfort, and a stabilizer in our lives, it can often be disorienting, weird to the people around us, and inconvenient. In fact, the more I engage with these strange practices and philosophies, the less I think spiritual practice is a *thing* at all. For me, spiritual practice is one simple, yet profound action: remembering.

Back in the early 00s I was spending my spiritual days and nights deep in Islam, supported by my initiation into a mystic sufi order known as the Nur Ashki Jerrahi community. It was customary for us (and for many sufis) to meet on Thursday nights to chant the holy names of God (there are 99), sing holy songs, rock side-to-side on the floor, and eat dates. We practiced Zikr, the ecstatic, trance-inducing act of “remembering.” We met, chanted, and entranced in order to remember our divine origin and the guiding light of the spiritual teachers who came before us. Also, there were the dates.

Spiritual practice is about remembering—remembering that in whatever moment you find yourself in, that is context in which the practice takes place. It is the meditation cushion, it is the altar, it is the holy drunken rocking, it is the date. Wherever you are in whatever state of mind, the practice takes the shape of the context you find yourself in. Always.

If during difficult or distracting times you find that you neglect your practice, then the feeling of guilt that comes with that experience is the practice. That is its context. That is its shape.

Sitting on a meditation cushion is just one context, just one shape. It is an intentional context we put ourselves in, to be sure. But, it is no less a context than any other. We may call it “sadhana,” or “yoga,” or a “method.” But, it is just an intentional thing we do. Centering prayer, Vipassana meditation, bhakti yoga. These are all contexts that give our practice shape.

Rarely do we feel that these are just contexts, however. We think they’re special, more “aligned” with what we’re “supposed to be doing.” And, there is some truth to that. Every context has its pluses. But, when we think these intentional acts are what the practice *is,* that’s when our practice becomes “other.” That’s when we’re able to forget about it, ignore it, avoid it, and feel guilty when we do. But, “feeling bad” is also a practice. It is also a context. It is also a shape our practice can take.

My advice? Go towards whatever it is you’re doing. Your self-judgment is a context. Your doubts are a context. Your resistance is a context. Everything you do is a context that gives your practice shape. Start there. 🌴