“Keep your mind in hell and despair not” - rituals to keep our minds in hell
I first met the quote in the title of this post through my wise friend Lamorna, who introduced me to the philosopher Gillian Rose’s book, ‘Love’s Work’ earlier this year. Rose’s book ends with this quote, which the 19th century Russian Catholic monk Saint Silouan is said to have received from God one night when he was struggling to pray.
“Keep your mind in hell and despair not”
(Side note: from Silouan, to Gillian, to Lamorna, to me, and now to you - isn’t there something rare and precious about the way that slices of wisdom like this travel through time and space?!)
I have been thinking about this quote a lot recently, as unfathomable horrors are carried out in Palestine and in Sudan; as our earth groans and wails under the weight of corporate and governmental misuse and negligence; as newspapers and news feeds bloat with fear mongering, scapegoating and sensationalising headlines, telling of horrors (both real and fabricated) that we are made to feel we have no control over. How, in the face of all this, do we avoid falling into despair?
Well, according to Lamorna, Gillian and St Silouan, we ought to keep our minds in hell. We should not look away (much less run away) from the horrors unfolding in our field of vision. We are dangerously misguided if we believe that burying our heads in the sand will alleviate the pain and the anguish, or replace it with hope and optimism. Paradoxically perhaps, if we want to avoid despair we must sit with and get to know the horrors unfolding and the pain they are causing us and those we love, whether they are known to us or not. If we manage to do this, we might have a shot at finding some hope amidst it all.
Writing this up, I was reminded of a quote from my first week of fellowship research, from an interview with the academic and musician Helen Phelan who said,
“A lot of spaces we create in the contemporary world are spaces of distraction and entertainment where we try to avoid coming face to face with the terrifying reality of being alive”
Helen went on to explain how rituals can help us to pay attention; to come face to face with the “terrifying reality of being alive. We discussed how rituals are contained and therefore feel safe: they have a beginning, a middle and an end; they have a leader; they have a language. In ritual time-space, we allow ourselves to explore things we might otherwise not know how to, or not be brave enough to. This feeling of safety allows us to interact with the fundamental realities of our lives and our lived experiences without needing the momentary relief of distraction.
It strikes me that the containing structure of a ritual is absolutely essential if we are to “keep our minds in hell” in the way that Gillian and St Silouan invite us to, without falling into despair, fear or apathy. But what might these rituals look like? Do they exist already, or do we need to set about building new ones for these troubled and troubling times? What scale might they happen on? Who needs to be involved?
There are three ritual practices that I would like to bring to the table in exploring these questions: the Persian celebration of Shab-e-Yalda; the Indonesian ritual of Ma’nene’; and finally the Jewish practice of Hitbodedut. I do not intend for any one of these practices to be a solution. Indeed, rather than drawing out answers, I have looked for the questions that each of these examples might offer us. In this way, I offer these examples as kindling, to help us as we light the fire of exploration.
Ma’nene’
The Toraja people of southern Sulawesi (one of Indonesia’s largest islands), are known around the world for their elaborate death rituals. Families often wait years before burying their relatives, in order to save up enough money to host a funeral that is similar, or even bigger, in scale to a wedding celebration.
“For Torajans, death is a gradual — and social — process. The bodies of people who have recently died are kept at home and preserved by their families, sometimes for years, until the family has enough money to pay for a funeral. The spirit of the dead is believed to linger in the world before the death ceremony is held. Afterward, the soul will begin its journey to Puya, the land of the spirits.
The longer the deceased person remains at home, the more the family can save for the funeral — and the bigger and more expensive the ceremony can be. Elaborate funeral ceremonies can last for 12 days and include the sacrifices of dozens of buffalos and hundreds of pigs. Such ceremonies can cost as much as hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
Ma’nene’ is a ritual that comes years later, once the loved one has been buried. During the ma’nene’ ritual, the bodies of dead, buried family members are dug up, cleaned and dressed in fresh clothes, chosen for them by their living relatives. In this way, the death of the beloved person does not represent a final ending, nor does it mark the last time that the family will see the body of the person they love. Instead, every 2-5 years, the families have the opportunity to be with and tend to them, and can even introduce their dead relatives to newer family members, who may never have met them in life. Far from causing more grief or distress, the Ma’nene’ ritual seems to support grieving relatives to face the reality of the situation, and in doing so provide relief. As one woman shares,
“I’m longing for my mother so much… Seeing her body heals my heart, but after this, I have to wait for two years to see her again, on the next ma’nene’.”
How does it feel to imagine doing this, particularly for those of us who have been brought up to be private and euphemistic about death? How might we find inspiration in the essence of the Ma’nene’ ritual, even if we are not able to enact it ourselves? How might the principles of Ma’nene’ be applied to situations other than the death of a person, or a loved one?
(Information and quotes above from this NYT article and this Authentic Indonesian Life article)
Hitbodedut
Hitbodedut is a Jewish practice I recently discovered, under the gentle guidance of Yael Roberts, an educator with Miknaf Ha’aretz, an organisation building earth-based, radical, diasporist jewish community in the UK.
Hitbodedut is a nature-based meditation or prayer practice, introduced by the 18th century Eastern European Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, which involves stepping out into nature and speaking aloud, in your everyday voice, using words and a tone that is familiar and comfortable to you. For Nachman, the practice was done best alone, at night, and in deep nature where no one else can hear you, but where God (or your version of holiness) can speak back through the nature that surrounds you. Oh, and there’s some screaming too… Nachman also advised on something called the silent scream,
“Just imagine the sound of such a scream in your mind. Depict the shout in your imagination exactly as it would sound. Keep this up until you are literally screaming with this soundless ‘small still voice.’ This is actually a scream and not mere imagination.”
How might the individual practice of hitbodedut help us to come face to face with our grief and pain? What role might nature play in creating a safe container for this process? How might we experience a version of hitbodedut even if we do not feel safe striking out into nature alone at night? What role does the screaming play? And why is it silent?
(Information and quotes above from this Hey Alma article and this piece by Rabbi Lauren Tuchman)
Shab-e-Yalda
Shab-e-Yalda is one of the most ancient Persian festivals and it marks the Winter Solstice – the longest night of the year. The festival is also known as Shabe Chelleh, or the Night of the Forty, because it marks the beginning of the first forty days of winter, which are believed to be the coldest and toughest days of the year.
On Shab-e-Yalda, families and friends gather, usually at the homes of grandparents or elderly relatives, to share stories, riddles, poems, songs and food until the sun comes up. The poems of Divan-e Hafez play a particularly special role, with each person making a silent wish before opening Hafez’s poetry book to a random page. The poem they land on is said to contain an indication of how that wish will come true.
What might the celebration of Shab-e-Yalda teach us about the importance of being together during dark times? What does it have to share about tuning into ancient wisdom, in the form of poems and stories, for guidance and answers? Why might gathering with our elders be particularly important as we face times of despair and decay? What impact does the name we give a ritual or ceremony have on the way it is experienced?
(Information above from this NaTakallam article and this Iran Doostan article)
There are so many more rituals that could be brought into this discussion: for example, the Mayan rain beckoning ritual Ch’a-cha’ak brings up questions about the role that rituals might play in the face of environmental disasters like drought; whilst the Navajo people’s ceremonies for people returning from war might help us to ask questions about the role of community in easing transitions for individuals who have experienced violence and trauma. But one thing that all of the rituals I have mentioned have in common, is that they create containers for holding and recognising that which feels too heavy to hold, and too upsetting to recognise.
So how are those ritual containers created and strengthened? What are some of the features that they have in common? Here are a couple of thoughts from me…
Multiple generations are brought together;
The setting for the ritual is often the natural world;
There is some kind of feasting or celebratory meal involved;
The practices are ancient – they have been done for centuries, and will likely continue to be done for many centuries more;
The rituals are part of a rich and thoughtful cultural or religious tapestry. They do not happen in isolation and would likely not be as powerful without the other rituals, ceremonies, celebrations and practices that form that specific cultural or religious tapestry.
So the question I am left with is still, what kind of rituals might help us to “keep [our] mind in hell and despair not”? And how might these rituals weave into the other rituals and practices that we need to live fulfilling, integrated lives?