Worshipping Lali


The sacred is not the shining thing at the end of the journey awaiting disclosure; the sacred is the journey: the celebrated departure and tearful goodbyes, the blue skies of optimism that dip in the welcoming horizons, the hint of grey in foreboding clouds, the obstacles that pepper the road with treacherous texture, the marauding doubts that steal your steps, the hallucinated masquerade that tortures your sleep, the glimpsed finish line, the exhausted arrival, and the morning after homecomings when the meaning of home needs to be reiterated again and again. One does not approach the sacred: the approach is the sacred.

You might say then: well, why not just get to the point and say that the sacred is “everything”? Why go through the trouble of being specific? It is because to speak of “everything” is a lingusitic convenience that risks reinforcing the image of a static container world filled with static things with static properties. Such a world couldn’t permit the sacred to exist. Instead the “world” we live with/in is so ecstatically indeterminate in its becoming, so relationally fluid, so processually entangled, so exceeding in its promiscuity, that one must often hesitate to name it, to think of it as a “world” with finished “things”. And that there is the “sacred”, the radical incompleteness that haunts “things” and engulfs them in a murmuration of becoming that is too complex for language to represent. The fugitivity of all bodies-in-their-ongoingness. The wound on heaven’s flesh. The masquerading figure just outside the fortified walls of conviction and celebrated arrivals that dances a coded message to you: “How about we undertake a new journey?”

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.