May The 4th (Force) Be with You
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was Catholic. Cradle Catholic, in fact. When I was a kid, my parents dragged me to church, like many parents do. I still remember when they deemed me too grown up for my coloring books during those 60 minutes of sit/kneel/stand aerobics (a real shame if you have ever been 7 years old and in a Catholic mass). In high school and college, church became my social network. Some of my longest and dearest friendships emerged from those days in church groups.
Looking back, I suspect that the social aspect of church was far more alluring to me than the bit where I was meant to believe in a bearded man in the sky. I recall watching church leaders and peers who seemed to have some direct connection with this god, and I was deeply envious. I often felt as if I were invisible to this god. If these peers had a direct line to god, then I was yelling into a Grand Canyon-esque void, hearing only my own echo.
Maybe it is the orphan that lives in me as an adoptee, or maybe it is just my personality, but I ached for more. To feel seen and guided by something beyond me. I had beautiful friendships, but I had no sense of belonging or purpose. On top of that, I generally felt crippled by Catholic guilt in regards to just about everything you can imagine (they are infamous for that, after all). I was exhausted by this faith, which seemed increasingly counterintuitive.
At college, the group of university Catholics that I was involved with became more and more bizarrely—and frankly, disturbingly—fundamentalist, so I started asking questions. I asked so many questions no one could answer that I asked myself right out of the Catholic Church. I abruptly abandoned what little was left of my faith and began my fall from Catholic grace. But this fall was also a slow and long spiraling return to myself and what I have aptly named, The Force (yep, that force).
I used to feel really awkward about how much I love Star Wars. Mostly because it draws a lot of “Oh, yeah? That is neat” comments accompanied by polite nods. But I do not love Star Wars because it’s a legendary space film. I love Star Wars because it tells the stories of my life. It defines the wordless places in me that need metaphors and symbols to breathe themselves into reality so that I can truly understand those wordless places, and thus heal them.
Every epic story holds its energy with us mere mortals because we see ourselves within it. Before there was science as we know it, there were stories. Stories that explained why the sun set, why the seasons changed, where we came from, and where we are going. Stories grounded us, united us and gave us purpose. They explained the unexplainable. Today, is it any wonder we are humans desperately seeking meaning, since we’ve lost the power of myth and story?
Star Wars simply came to me in a time when I felt like an aimless adolescent arrow. The crux of its narrative is braced on the backbone of the orphan’s tale—one I will never shake as an adoptee. But beyond the orphan is a message about the unseen forces that bind us together, thankfully without referencing that bearded guy in the sky.
When I lost my faith, there were many phases of emotions. Years of anger (I have been known to write strongly worded emails to archbishops whom I find to be morally devoid). Years of grief and liminal space as I wantonly grasped at other religions or things that might anchor me. Though many were captivating and seemed like a good place to rest for a while, none of them ever felt like coming home. As my fire-filled emotions with the Catholic church burned out, I found more space for what has always been in me but not yet awake—my own Personal Mythology.
Personal myths are the personal stories of who we are, how we came to be, why we fight to survive, and the wonder of watching it uncoil within us. They are the mysteries we experience that cannot be defined by reason or science. They are the intuition that guides us, coming from some deep source of knowing we cannot explain.
I suppose most Catholics would say this is god. And maybe it is. But who am I to give this infinite expanse a single name and stake a claim? The recovering Catholic in me needed something else to call it. I hear the same from my clients who have left behind their childhood belief systems. Do we call it god? The universe? The Self? Or perhaps more importantly, do we even let ourselves feel that it exists?
There is a cost to cutting ourselves off from the unknown, the mysterious, and the undefined. If we bury ourselves in what can only be graphed and crammed into a scientific abstract, we lose our sense of wonder. But I believe that stories—both of the world and your own—can lead you home. It might mean allowing yourself to get lost in all you do not know. Lost in the ache to feel your significance beyond the tangible world. It means holding the possibility that there is something more that binds us with one another and the natural world. This sense of wonder is where we find the antidote to the isolation of these times.
On this May the 4th (Force) Be With You, it feels fitting to acknowledge that Star Wars has somehow become a mythical road map of my life. I return to the various films when I feel far from home (literal or figurative), when I am emotionally lost, and when I need hope infused back into my psyche. Sure, Star Wars might be “just some space movies” in the same way that The Force is just “the force.” But I believe it’s far more. The Force is the tension between all opposites in our universe. It is an unseen energy that lives within us all. It is the anchor that names my losses, but also reminds me of my purpose and indelibly connects me to my Self.
May The Force be with you.
Always.
Julie