By Brock
Following a month immersed in the vast world of Catholicism, it was time to move on to the next major religion to emerge after Christianity, Islam. Born from the revelations of the Prophet Muhammad in 7th-century Arabia, Islam is a faith that emphasizes the oneness of God (Allah), submission to His will, and the pursuit of justice and compassion. This core message of monotheism, the belief in one, indivisible God, resonates deeply across various religious traditions, from Judaism and Christianity to Islam and beyond.
The story of Islam begins with the Prophet Muhammad, a merchant from Mecca, who received revelations through the Angel Gabriel. These revelations, recorded in the Quran, form the foundation of Islamic beliefs and practices. The primary beliefs of Islam include the importance of faith in Allah, prayer (Salah), charity (Zakat), fasting during the month of Ramadan, and pilgrimage to Mecca (Hajj).
Islam, like Christianity and Judaism, traces its roots to Abraham, considered a prophet by each faith. This shared lineage underscores the many connections between the three religions. However, Islam also offers a unique perspective on monotheism. The concept of Tawhid, the absolute oneness of God, is central to Islamic theology, rejecting any form of idolatry or polytheism. The concept of a trinity is not monotheistic enough for Islam.
Wintering
This month, I embarked on a journey to understand the core tenets of Islam, its rich history, and the profound impact it has had on the world. I sought to learn about Islamic art, architecture, and philosophy, to explore the diverse cultures and traditions that have emerged within the Islamic world. Except, what I am embarked upon, and what actually happened, were two very different things.
What should have been a vibrant exploration of Islamic thought, instead felt like a dreary slog through familiar territory. The joyous energy of December, with its celebration of Christmas, had faded, replaced by the muted palette of winter. The days were short, the light was dim, and my enthusiasm for this exploration had waned. A strange lethargy had settled over me, a sense of disconnection from the subject of all religion. This wasn’t an issue with Islam. I’d begun to feel this disconnect in December, during my exploration of Catholicism, though it was largely masked by the festivities of the Christmas season. Now, with the holidays behind us, the feeling of disconnection was undeniable.
I found myself struggling to connect with the material. The concepts of Tawhid, and the five pillars of Islam, while undeniably important, felt familiar, echoes of the monotheistic doctrines I was very familiar with. I was treading familiar ground, revisiting well-worn paths, and the novelty, the sense of discovery that had fueled my earlier explorations, had vanished.
This lack of engagement, this feeling of spiritual stagnation, was unsettling. I had embarked on this journey of faith with a sense of purpose, a desire to understand the world and my place within it. Instead, I found myself adrift, a ship lost at sea in a fog of indifference. The winter blues, I told myself, a temporary stagnation that would soon pass. But the feeling lingered, a shadow that clung to me throughout the month.
Perhaps, I was simply “wintering,” as the writer Katherine May eloquently describes it – a period of quiet introspection, of withdrawing from the world and turning inward. A time for rest, for rejuvenation, for allowing the seeds of creativity and inspiration to lie dormant beneath the surface. But the feeling of stagnation, the sense of being stuck in a rut, went beyond mere winter resting. It felt like a spiritual drought, a drying up of the wellspring of curiosity and wonder that had once fueled my explorations.
Instead of a vibrant exploration of Islamic thought, I found myself grappling with a sense of spiritual disillusionment. The path, I realized, is not always a linear progression, a steady ascent towards enlightenment. There are detours, there are periods of stagnation, there are times when the path ahead seems obscured by doubt and uncertainty. And perhaps, that is okay. Perhaps, this period of spiritual “wintering” was a necessary part of the journey, a time to rest, to reflect, and to prepare for the renewed growth.
The Quran
The Quran, while undeniably powerful, felt different from the other religious texts I had encountered. Where the Bible, with its complex array of stories and parables, had always captivated my imagination, and the Tao Te Ching and the Bhagavad Gita had offered a profound wisdom that resonated deeply with my soul, the Quran presented itself as a collection of rules, reminders, and pronouncements.
Don’t get me wrong, the Quran is undeniably weighty, with its rhythmic prose and powerful imagery. I was awestruck by the information it contains, the intricate legal and social codes, the ethical teachings. Yet, something was missing. I yearned for the narratives, the myths, the stories that had so deeply resonated with me in other religious texts. I longed for the human element, the relatable characters, the poignant parables that offered insights into the human condition.
Perhaps it was my own cultural conditioning, my familiarity with the narratives of the Bible and the mythological traditions of the West. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of information, the dense legal and theological pronouncements that overwhelmed my attempts at deeper engagement. Whatever the reason, I found myself struggling to connect with the Quran on a personal level. It often felt more like an legal document, a set of instructions, than a roadmap for the soul. I also have an aversion to exclamation marks in writing and this translation had many. It felt like I was being yelled at often and forcibly.
This disconnection, I realized, wasn’t unique to my experience with Islam. I had encountered similar feelings during my exploration of Catholicism. While I was drawn to the beauty of the cathedrals, the intricate rituals, and the profound history of the faith, I struggled to connect with certain aspects of Catholic doctrine, the emphasis on dogma and the hierarchical structure.
The extraction
Part of the reason I felt so off during this month was because I was also sick. A cold had arrived with the stealth of a thief in the night, a subtle shift in the air, a tickle in the throat that quickly escalated into a cacophony of sneezes and coughs. The pressure in my sinuses awoke an unwelcome companion – the familiar ache in my jaw, a ghost of dental traumas past.
Many years ago, I believe it was around 2010, we moved into our new home in Chandler, Arizona. We were, to put it mildly, broke. I was happily munching on something when, crack, my tooth broke. We found the cheapest dentist we could find in Mesa, Arizona. During the crown placement procedure, they somehow cracked one of my roots. It was excruciatingly painful. For weeks, my entire mouth throbbed. I thought it was just the new crown settling (it was my first and I had no idea what to expect). I finally went back to the dentist, pleading with him about the pain. He attributed it to the bite, so he sanded it down. Again, for weeks, the agony continued. I returned, and again, they sanded it down. After a few months, I resigned myself to the pain, the intensity subsiding slightly.
A year later, I visited a new dentist for a checkup. I described the persistent pain to her, but she couldn’t find anything amiss on the X-ray. It wasn’t until about two years later, while working as the Associate Dean of a college with a dental hygienist program, that one of the dentists on staff suggested a cracked root, hidden deep within the tooth, as the likely culprit. The only solution, she explained, was extensive dental work, or, extraction.
About ten years later, I’m living in Asheville. The tooth still ached, but in distant waves, usually triggered by a cold or a sinus infection. At one of my dental visits, they tried to do an X-ray of the root, and they simply couldn’t. They said, no matter how they turned the camera in my mouth, they couldn’t get all of the roots. That should have been a sign to all of us.
Finally, a few months ago, I was at my new dentist when they did a different kind of X-ray. One of the big machines that goes around your head and even goes down through the sinuses. She said she saw something interesting on that tooth. There seemed to be almost a connection from my tooth to my sinus. Like it was me continuous bone. That was why I was having so many sinus infections on my left side. She said it looked like it had developed some type of infection that was draining into my sinuses and we needed to pull the tooth. This was just before the hurricane, and so it was pushed to the back of my mind for a while.
When I caught a cold a few weeks ago and the sinus swelling intensified the pain again, I realized it was time to finally address this long-standing issue.
On the day of the extraction, I had John take me. I knew it was supposed to be a simple procedure, but something felt off. There was a sense of unease, a premonition that this would not be a routine procedure.
First, something unexpectedly good happened. The assistant checked my blood pressure, and it was low. This was a complete shock. I have high blood pressure, it’s practically a family tradition! I’m a Hancock, for goodness sake. I thought, “Okay, well that is surprising, especially because I felt this deep nervousness around what was about to happen.” It dawned on me that this sudden drop in blood pressure might be connected to the recent lifestyle changes I’d been making – studying religions, focusing on well-being, and gradually shedding some of my less healthy habits.
The dentist then attempted to draw blood for the procedure, but my veins seemed to have vanished. The dentist struggled, poking and prodding, but only managed to draw a pathetic trickle before giving up. It was a surreal start to what promised to be a surreal experience.
When they finally began the extraction, it quickly became apparent that this was no routine procedure. The tooth, it seemed, had grown stubbornly attached to the bone, its roots intertwined to the jaw with calcified infection from over a decade. The dentist, worked with a focused intensity, but the tooth remained defiant, refusing to yield. The air in the room, once sterile and calm, began to crackle with a palpable tension.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the breath, on the rhythmic rise and fall of my chest. I meditated and focused on my calm. In that moment, amidst the chaos, a strange sense of detachment descended. The drilling, the sawing, the grunts of exertion – all of it receded into a distant hum. I surrendered to the present moment, acknowledging the pain, the fear, the uncertainty, but also recognizing the profound stillness that existed beneath the surface. It was a paradoxical experience, a surrender to the pain, a recognition of the body’s limitations, a quiet acceptance of the present moment, however unpleasant.
The procedure, ultimately, was longer and more arduous than anyone had anticipated. The tooth, it turned out, had become a fortress, encased in a thick layer of calcification that spread out and reached the bone. The thirty minute procedure took over three hours. It was a major procedure. One of the worst the dentist had ever seen. The cracks and bangs I heard in my head will forever be seared in my memory.
Finally, they finished. John drove me home as I tried to remove massive amounts of gauze from the inside my mouth, and held an icepack to the outside.
The next few weeks were a mess. The crater in my mouth was enormous. They took a bone graft from a cadaver and placed it inside the cavity, along with a few collagen plugs to aid in healing. Then, they meticulously sewed everything up. It was quite a spectacle, digging deep to extract all the growth from the tooth and then filling it up again for healing. There were stitches all over the inside of my mouth.
Luckily, some simple ibuprofen and acetaminophen kept the worst pain at bay, but it was still extremely uncomfortable. My sinuses were a mess. My left sinus became a constant source of fetid smelling discharge. Small fragments of bone and tooth seemed to constantly migrate, appearing in my mouth at the most unexpected times. The taste in my mouth was constantly foul.
It took almost two more weeks to heal completely. The sinus infection and pain continued for a long time. The last major hurdle came when a piece of bone started to protrude through the gums. After another day of persistent discomfort, it was finally sticking out enough for me to carefully grasp it and gently remove it. Again, a noticeable sense of relief washed over me. After that, the pain subsided, the swelling receded, and my sinuses finally started to clear up. After almost 15 years, I was finally pain-free.
Looking back, I see this experience as a metaphor for something deeper. Just as the tooth, buried deep within my jaw, had festered and caused untold suffering, so too had certain aspects of my own psyche remained trapped, unresolved, casting long shadows over my present experience. This period of enforced stillness, of facing the discomfort and navigating the challenges of healing, had forced me to confront these deeper issues, to address the underlying anxieties that had been hindering my spiritual growth.
The Old Haywood Filing Station
On a much happier note, some dear friends recently purchased a charming old antique store, a relic of a bygone era when it served as a gas station. Remarkably, it’s just a stone’s throw from our home. They’ve since transformed it into a beautiful wine and coffee bar, a warm and inviting space that’s quickly become a local favorite. They generously offered both John and me positions there, slinging beer, wine, and expertly crafted coffees in the evenings. Becoming bartenders (and baristas, in a way!) has turned out to be a true godsend for both of us, albeit in different ways.
I enjoy the social aspect – chatting with neighbors, making new friends, and pairing wines with snacks. But John, he’s truly in his element. He thrives in this environment. While I like it, it’s clear he could build a career out of this, and be genuinely happy doing so.
The reality is, there aren’t enough hours for both of us to work consistently. However, there are enough for one of us, and I quickly realized this opportunity was precisely what John needed. What he has been searching for. This job has breathed new life into him. He’s so much happier and more engaged than he’s been in his previous roles. He’s passionate about the wines, and the stories behind them. He loves talking with the patrons. He even delves into the world of coffee and beers. Seeing him flourish like this, surrounded by the happy chatter of patrons, is incredibly rewarding. Perhaps, this is what he was meant to do all along – to connect with people, share his light, and bring a little joy to his corner of the world.
The Joy of Losing
Over the past six months, a quiet revolution has started to unfold within me. It wasn’t a deliberate pursuit, but rather a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in life, like the slow turning of a dial. I began to detach from the pursuit of “more.” This aligns with the Taoist concept of education adding to our lives, while enlightenment subtracts. I was educated, but not enlightened. I feel I’ve experienced a taste of that subtraction. It’s fascinating, almost wondrous, how these changes simply…left. It wasn’t a conscious decision to change; these desires, these cravings, simply faded away.
The desire for knowledge that has been a hallmark of my existence for decades, the craving to understand, began to wane. The academic chase, the pursuit of degrees and certifications, lost its allure. I’ll still complete my coaching program, but the burning need to expand my intellectual horizons has subsided. It’s as if my mind finally found a quiet contentment.
My relationship with material possessions also underwent a subtle transformation. The allure of the “next best thing” diminished. I found myself drawn to simplicity, appreciating the beauty and functionality of what I already owned. The subtle pressure to keep up, simply evaporated.
My social life, too, experienced a gentle recalibration. The need for social stimulation, to go out and eat and fun restaurants, began to fade. I discovered a newfound appreciation for quiet moments, for solitude, for the simple pleasure of my own company. I would much rather cook for a few at home and enjoy the company of my wonderful friends or family.
Even my wanderlust, once a driving force, has quieted. The world still beckons, but the urgent need to explore every corner has lessened.
My love affair with to-do lists? That’s faded too. The need to be doing, the be productive, has been replaced by a sense of just being.
I used to love watching TV and had a long list of shows I followed, but now I barely think about them. I’m sure they’ll be fine without me.
My relationship with alcohol and food also shifted. I used to enjoy a few drinks a week, especially when company is over. Now, I can go weeks without realizing I haven’t touched it. It’s just not a thing for me anymore. An entire glass of wine feels daunting. The habit, even the desire, has simply faded away.
Perhaps the most surprising change was the unexpected weight loss. Stepping on the scale one morning, I was astonished to see I’d lost 20 pounds! It wasn’t something I consciously pursued; it simply happened. Remember the low blood pressure at the dentist? My body was changing without me noticing.
It’s not that I don’t still enjoy these things. Quite the opposite. I think I enjoy each of them more. What I learn feels like it is drawn to me, I don’t need to look for it. The glass of wine now feels like a celebration with friends, not just another night. The movie feels more heartfelt. And, travel feels like intentional exploration, not just experiences. I have been lucky enough to experience so much, and now I appreciate it more.
These seemingly disparate changes feel interconnected, part of a larger shift in my consciousness. It’s as though I’m shedding layers, peeling back the onion, revealing a simpler version of myself. It’s not about deprivation or denial, but a gentle letting go, a surrendering. I wasn’t actively trying to “subtract” from my life, but rather, I was creating space for something new to emerge. The old patterns, the old desires, were simply falling away, replaced by a newfound sense of contentment. I can simply be, simply exist, without the pressure to accumulate, to achieve, to strive.
This entire experience feels deeply rooted in Eastern philosophy, particularly the concepts I explored in the early months of my religious exploration. I was immersed in Buddhist and Taoist thought, and those ideas seem to have seeped into my persona, into my unconscious. It’s a stark contrast to the Western religious traditions (Catholicism, Judaism, and Islam) I’ve been focusing on more recently, which often emphasize action, striving, and achievement. Living in “abundance.” This shift, this “subtraction,” feels profoundly Eastern, it seems those initial explorations stuck with me.
This newfound simplicity, this sense of peace, is wonderful. It’s as if I’ve finally shed the heavy cloak of expectations and personal pressure, allowing myself to simply be present, to fully inhabit the moment. And in that moment, I’ve discovered a simple, quiet contentment I hadn’t experienced in years. It’s a quiet joy, born not from acquisition, but from release.
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