Belovedness as Spiritual Practice: A Meditation for the Fear of Rejection
A glittery, rainbow-y, stardust-y blessing of peace...
If you’re a religious trauma survivor like me, you might wonder, Yeah, but do people really love me? When’s the shoe going to drop? When will I be abandoned by everyone? Because I’m worried that’s a sure thing. Because it’s happened before when I’ve shown even small parts of my most authentic self. An intrusive thought spiral that can be really hard to shake (frankly, because the RAP movement,1 impacting many exvangelicals like myself, really did a number on a lot of our abilities to attach securely).
I’m not a therapist, but I can share a meditation that has let me sit in the discomfort, while being present in the belovedness I know exists now, has existed in the past, or will exist in the future. I acknowledge that rejection is a possibility, but that it can’t shake my core sense of belovedness and worth. Love takes many forms, and in an ultimate sense, we are all connected as living beings in this universe, all made of the same stardust. That’s a lot of love that’s been shared across millennia. There’s been love in my molecules before. There will be love in them again. And I do believe that there is a Love that holds up the universe in some way, and that love was first introduced to me as Jesus, but I think the divine,2 whatever god is or isn’t, is more expansive than the names we give them.
And so, when I fear I will be rejected (especially for small, perceived infractions), I interrupt my spiral:
Okay, but what if you are beloved?
There’s just as high of a percentage of that being true as you being rejected.
Be at peace. You are so deeply loved.
And in those moments, I remember the love of others.
I remember my nesting partner, my beloved of almost eleven years.
I remember my dear roommate who has supported me through so much and adventured with me through fun and heartbreak and everything in between.
I remember my siblings-in-law and the joy and heartache and fun and support we’ve shared over the years since they welcomed me into their family.
I remember the care of a long-distance beloved, and her sweet support via text message, voice memo, and video call.
I remember the adventures of food, drink, watching movies, and discussing records, books, and zines with one of my besties since high school when I visited her recently in another state, as well as our deep conversations over video call and text.
I remember book/record clubs I’m a part of.
I remember the amazing people I interact with in my queer nightlife.
I remember my dear online writer and reader friends.
I remember my incredibly supportive coworkers.
I remember the queer clergy member who gives glitter blessings every year at Pride in my city and the way her blessings always center me.
I remember the kind medical professionals who have made up my care team through my disabled journey.
I remember the collective song for liberation of an arena full of mostly queer people and allies at a Hozier concert. Or the echoing song of liberation I heard at a bar where Semler played.
I remember the care of my pole fitness instructors and the support of my classmates over the years.
I remember the love of a dear bookstore cat and the snuggles she gives.
I remember the love of activists who came before and gave me the rights I have today. I protest and work for the rights of the young ones to come, so that they will feel that love one day too.
I remember the love I have for myself (all the little radical acts of self-care I do day in and out), and I hug myself, for our relationship with ourselves is our first love and a relationship we all so often neglect.
I remember the love and connection of nature and trees.
I remember the love of anyone else along the journey who doesn’t fit the above categories.
I envisage this swirl around me. A mystical orb of safety, empowerment, hope, connection…love.
I am not alone. I am never alone.
You are never alone.
We are tremendously beloved together.
No matter what.
And to me, this belovedness is at the very core of what I mean when I say spiritual.3
And so I want to know, dear readers, how do you remember your belovedness? And who are the people and communities that you think of when you need to remember it?
In Wonder,
Kandi Zeller (she/her)
Check out STRONGWILLED for more on this movement.
My understanding of how God expresses Godself is expansive. Basically, I conceive of spirituality as our experience with divine love and connection. But even that feels a little religious-y. Put another way, I believe spirituality is the place where we as individuals and communities connect with the “force of love that holds up the universe” (in words sometimes attributed to Julian of Norwich), whether we conceive of that love as divine or as the love shared between fellow humans/other creatures or some combination of both loves. It is the place within our bodies and our communities where we find love and connection with all who have come before and who will come after.
When I describe or experience any tool/practices as spiritual, I want to acknowledge that that is not everyone’s experience. Any practice/tool I share is meant for all, regardless of spiritual label (or lack of label) or whether you experience these tools as spiritual or as some other adjective(s). Labels, while helpful in describing our experiences, are ultimately insufficient, so I want to hold space for that tension here.
You have some really great beings in your life!