My Spiritual Shopping Spree.

Too Bayliss even for Bayliss.

Center for Yoga Teachers Training, 1983(?)

David Lynch’s passing and all that came after conjured up some strange dreams and memories within ye ol’ bony orb.

I started wondering about the spiritual (including ‘atheist’) waves that may ebb and flow through our lives. How do they start, change, or remain constant? From a non-dual lens, is it a continuum in various guises that slip on and off, dependent on apparent circumstances such as family, where you grew up, or any beliefs?

Or, simply, “Who’s asking the question”?

This is meant to be a conversation starter, so please drop your thoughts in the Comments. I’ll let it rip:

I was raised Lutheran.

Deep breath.

That’s a lot of excitement for one sentence.

My mother Shirley was second-generation Norwegian. Her authoritarian parents raised her “by the Holy Book” on a farm in Buttzville, North Dakota. Buttzville (love!) is a ghost town now. My father, Jim, was a street urchin from Redford, Michigan, with no strong connection to the church. Instead, he spent ‘two bits’ on Sunday watching the double bills at the Redford Theatre, famous for its Wurlitzer pipe organ.

Both were raised in poverty during the Great Depression and arrived on the aromatic shores of Tacoma, Washington, during WWII.

When they met, my mom worked as an Army secretary at Fort Lewis. My dad was a Navy man whose ship, the USS San Diego, had docked in the Puget Sound. He was on shore leave. One fateful night at a USO club, she bumped into him. He gave her a nickel for a slot machine—and our future was sealed.

I’m pretty sure my dad was a romantic and a rebel at heart. He was also young and didn’t think things through as he went AWOL to marry my mom and got sent to the brig for it. But, he was let out, given a sidearm, the keys to a car, money, and a prisoner to transport…at least, that’s his story. Which I’ve always liked.

By the time I came along, there were two other boys before me, Jim and Curt. We went to Sunday school after church and then at least once more during the week, oftentimes more. We said our prayers every night with our mom. Sometimes, Dad joined in.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep….”

Because of our church’s views, I believed I was deeply flawed and needed saving. I was vigilantly on the lookout for a messenger or a hero. It didn’t matter to me if they were religious or an athlete as long as my family didn’t die or go to hell.

In athletics, it began as a desire to be bigger than life. Charles Atlas, a bodybuilder who advertised in magazines like Popular Mechanics and comic books, was my first ideal. Atlas was the original skinny guy who got “sand kicked in his face’, packed on some beef, cold-cocked the bully, and got the girl. If you sent him a dollar, a pamphlet would be mailed to you, revealing his secrets to physical health and strength, using only the soup cans, chairs, and newspapers found conveniently in your home. He gave his discovery a sexy name - Dynamic Tension.

This also began my fascination with influencers and their ‘hustles.’

The religious messiah thing was mainly reserved for JC with a schmeer of my dad’s favorite, Billy Graham. I tried to get the feel of the messiah's magic by acting out Biblical stories in my bedroom and casting myself as all the characters.

If you peeked into 7-year-old Kyle’s room on a Sunday afternoon, a chaotic scene would be playing out: swathed in a bedsheet, I would be Simon Peter, wielding a sword (plastic), ‘cutting’ off the ear of a screaming Roman soldier (me). I’d then toggle between Jesus magically putting the ear back on my head (as the now grateful soldier), and then flip to me as Judas guiltily pointing out Jesus for arrest and then me, as Jesus, forgiving me, as Judas for my betrayal.