Recently a friend proposed moving to another city to be with her boyfriend…she owns a beautifully-appointed condo here… incredibly artistic, refreshing and relaxing. It’s a spiritual experience to be welcomed into her home.
He’s a sweet, gentle guy. When she first started dating him, she described him as “He’s just a GUY” (all caps). He’s funny, he’s healthy, he doesn’t take himself too seriously, and he has the most loving, easy to be around doggie ever!
Evidently, he cannot move here, because he has lived in Sedona before and has been burned/wearied/etc., with the ‘fake spirituality.’ The rest of us sharing lunch tried to come up with examples of ‘fake’ spirituality,
Leader (and personal friend) asked, “How many fake cowboys in the town you’re moving to?” There in that Arizona Western town, lots of peeps wear boots and hats and jeans, but don’t rustle cattle. Just stylin’ down Whiskey Row.
I was a fake cowgirl there last weekend. I went to the rodeo – America’s oldest rodeo. Woot! I wore boots and a Western hat…No cow helped personally in any way to get me to the rodeo. The boots may have been a byproduct of your hamburger. And possibly the suede hat. The fun I had gussying up as a cowgirl was all mine!
Someone posited that fake spirituality might be the proselytizing kind. You know, the ones who tell you you aren’t whole until you do this thing they’ve done. Or lead you in a guided meditation when all you wanted to do was give them a lift and go on your way.
Another drew ahs and mhs by suggesting “Any spirituality besides your own.” Ha! Yes!
Or maybe it’s just those of us who don’t acknowledge our fakiness.
Speaking to the camera: “I reserve the right to change my mind tomorrow.” (I think Martin Luther or some revered person…Ben Franklin? nah…) said that.
We’re all fake, because we’re all part who we want to be and part who we don’t want to be. We enlist denial (or debilitating blame) for the part that doesn’t fit the ideal “me.” Whether we deem ourselves better than or worse than others, that judgy part is wedging us into a false place, and there we are fake, because we are not better than or worse than the next person. We are neither better than nor worse than our idealized self, because that self itself is unreal; it is fake.
I think my friend will be happy with her fake-adverse boyfriend. What he doesn’t like about this town might even be fake only because he judges it so. No matter. I’m enriched by wrestling with the phrase and embracing my own fakiness.
Recognize and own your fake parts. You’ll evolve and live from a higher plane.