Five Things: Finding the Humanity Under the Pile of Shit.

What can we do when the world feels like a place we'd rather not be? The essence of spirituality is remembering our shared humanity, even in moments when it feels very hard to do so.

Hi. I’m Katie. This newsletter is a place for the woo curious to explore spirituality, culture, and humanity in an intersectional way. Here’s what I’m thinking about this week…

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This personal essay attempts to put into words all that I’m feeling about the state of the world right now. I hope it resonates with you.

My therapist tells me that I think too much.

She tells me that, when my mind acts like a balloon that unexpectedly slips out of a toddler’s hand, to come back. To tie myself to the wrist of the present.

She tells me to name five things that I can see. So I do.

I see the pothos plant languishing in my window, half of it just a bare stem due to cold drafts and neglect. 

I see the tuft of cat hair that clings to the vents, moving back and forth each time the heat comes rushing through. 

I see the orange folder that houses the many tax documents that I have been dutifully collecting and just as dutifully ignoring.

I see the empty tea mug, leaving a ring on my desk.

And I see the reflection of my face in the screen of my computer. The crease between my brows is deep.

I don’t feel better.

It feels impossible to ground myself in the present when the present isn’t somewhere I’d like to be. So I do what I always do when things feel too heavy: I escape. 

I pick up my phone, and I scroll. My mind begins to race.

I remember what my therapist said. I name five things that I can see. 

A photo of babies and their nurses, huddled together in a makeshift hospital after theirs was destroyed by bombs.

A video of a man, safe in his home, sending love and light overseas with the flag of Ukraine displayed in the background. 

White text against a black backdrop with the words of an astrologer, claiming that this war is for a higher reason that our human minds just can’t understand. 

Another flag, this one in shades of pastel pink and blue, being torn and destroyed by the unfeeling hands of legislation.

My face, reflected back to me in the screen of my phone. The crease between my brows seems even deeper.

Somehow, I feel worse.

What is left to do when, everywhere I turn, I am confronted by things I’d like to fix but cannot find the power to do so? 

I know that I can clean the cat hair up. I can wash the mug. I can rub the space between my eyebrows and loosen the tension that hides there. 

But I cannot fly overseas, spread my arms and scoop up the infants that lie crying in a darkened room. I cannot grow larger than life, stomp into Texas and become the biggest thing there, big enough to stop suited men from denying the humanity of those who are different from them.

I wonder if I should do as others do and begin to unravel the many knotty, tangled Twitter threads to try and understand the origins of a foreign war. Perhaps I should repost every sad photo I see, a feeble attempt to say, “I’m still here. I’m listening. I’m trying to understand.” 

I keep scrolling. Maybe the next post will help it all make sense. Or the next. Or the next.

My eyes get blurry. I stare at photo after photo, attempt after attempt to make sense of what cannot be fully understood through the lens of social media. Each swipe of my index finger takes me further and further away.

My therapist must be wrong. It is better to take flight. To let my mind soar high above it all, detached and free.

Up here, I am an alien, gazing down at the Earth from my spaceship, wondering what the hell is going on. What are those creatures called humans doing? Simple things like trees seem strange against the backdrop of the sky. 

I look down at the bare branches and think, what is the point?

I go to the library because I’m not sure what else to do. I check out a book of poetry by Kate Baer. In the car, with the sun filtering through my dirty windshield, I sit and page through it. My eyes are still fuzzy. My mind is filled with the familiar static I’ve lived with my whole life. It has been much louder lately.

I land on a poem called the Martian. I read it once. I read it again.

Take my hand, this is what we call the world.

Sometimes we call it the earth, the most gentle

of words. Other times, a heaping pile of shit.

I understand that what I see now is not what I will always see. The heaping pile of shit will not always be so. Some days, I will see the mushrooms that push forth. I will see the green, green grass that envelops the sadness. I will believe that the shit can be fertilizer for something better.

And other days, I will not be able to do any of that.

On those days, I will name five things I cannot see. 

The color of my friendship with Tracey, a complex sunset of oranges and pinks. 

The shape my voice takes as I ask my student Wyvern to tell me more about their obsession with Overwatch because I know they just want to talk.

The expression on Priya’s face when she opens up a letter from me.

The way the light streams through my ex husband’s windows in England as he reads my messages of encouragement for his new relationship.

Most of all, I name what I have to believe is there: the beautiful, chaotic current of human connection that thrums beneath the pile of shit.

Kate Baer’s poem ends with these words:

That is a candle. This is a door. Here is the light

it carries. Here is the comfort it brings.

This is what I choose to call the world: home. 

I seek to light the candle of another human, creating a beautiful chain that connects me to you. I seek a flame to guide me back to my humanity. I seek a glowing tether that pulls me back to Earth, reminding me that I live here too. 

Even when it does not make sense. When it will not make sense.

I know this is not everything. But it is something.

I ended up reading this essay out loud at an open mic night and really enjoyed it. So, I’m sharing an audio version of it below.

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✨Cards for Humanity: The Six of Wands✨

Whether you’re into tarot or not, here’s a few things to consider about this weird thing called life.

The Six of Wands is what I term a “spotlight” card. The suit of Wands connects with the element of fire and speaks of that which burns within us: our conviction, our purpose and what we have been placed on this earth to create.

When we see the Six of Wands, we are being called to step into the spotlight and share our talents and passions with our community. Doing so acts as a way of lighting the candle of someone else and creates that beautiful chain that connects us together. It reminds us of the power that we hold within and how much bigger it can grow when we share it.

The numerology of the number six also speaks of healing and stability, so the Six of Wands suggests that this act of sharing can help heal both yourself and those around you by creating stability in times of uncertainty and chaos.

The wreath that crowns the top of the rider’s staff signifies completion, celebration and unity. The light we choose to share with others binds us together in our shared human experience. Others around you will be similarly motivated to raise their own wands and contribute to the overarching goal of creating a better, more connected world. Not just for ourselves. For everyone.

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✨Prompts | Six of Wands✨

Meditate. Journal. Pull some cards.

☀️What fire burns within me? What can I create with it?

☀️What are some ways I can connect with others by sharing my gifts?

☀️How can I use my fire to light one within someone else?

☀️What is a small act I can do this week to create a better world for others?

A painting / a song / a poem to represent the Six of Wands.

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✨Weekly Mantra✨

Write it down. Say it out loud. Share it with a friend.

I acknowledge the humanity in myself and others.

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