A few months ago I got my first sourdough starter. I am rather late to the sourdough game, it just always seemed like too much work to me. I had instant yeast after all, why did I need to tend a starter?
But something about the idea of that starter, of the fermenting of sourdough loaves had worked its way in and finally I gave in, obtained a nice healthy bit of starter, a “how to take care of your starter” sheet, and assumed it would be smooth sailing, after all I’ve been baking for decades.
I fell flat on my face. My first “loaf” of sourdough, which was also my first attempt at baking without a bread pan, was a complete failure. Sure the recipe looked similar. Flour, water, yeast (starter), a bit of salt. But the technique for making a sourdough loaf is entirely different to a traditional sandwich loaf made with packet yeast and a metal pan.
The terminology in the recipe meant nothing to me, steps I was familiar with (like kneading) were missing, and sourdough terminology for special techniques weren’t explained. That first loaf, despite a lovely first proof, looked more like a pancake than bread.
So I sat down at the computer and began watching Youtube videos. I discovered “stretch and fold,” and the importance of bulk fermentation. I learned how to create tension in the dough itself so it didn’t need a pan to let it grow up in the oven. I even learned what an “ear” was and how to get one.
My second attempt, following a video step by step was really good, but also required a very special set of circumstances to work (the teacher takes 3 days to make his sourdough)! Over the last month I’ve been making bread once a week for spouse and I and each time I’ve learned something about how I can make a weekly bread ritual work for me. Because even bread will be different for us all. My house is a certain temperature, my teacher’s is different. My starter has certain qualities, his is different. I’m using different flour, my schedule looks very different than a Youtube baker.
Each time I’ve baked a loaf I’ve learned something, about what works and what doesn’t work for me. Some have been better than others. Each time I’ve jotted down notes for the next time. And slowly, ever so slowly, I’m making that sourdough recipe mine. (April 2023: and now, almost six months into this journey the bread and I just are. I don’t need a recipe, I know exactly what works best for me, and the process of making that bread has become its own kind of embodied meditation.)
Which is a long story to say that you can, and should, do the same with your spiritual practices. I would go so far as to hazard that most teachers assume you will do this, because they’ve done it. But that assumption means they may never say “now, be sure once you’ve learned the basics to make this your own.” It is what our great spiritual teachers have done since the beginning of human history.
Each took what they learned from those who came before them and modified those things in some way for their time, place, and lives. Those changes spoke to enough people that they became popular, passed down generation to generation. But here is I think where we lose sight of an important truth. All humans need to be the masters of their own spiritual lives, but we are rarely given such examples because the world of spiritual growth is quiet, private, and unsung.
Think about painting. We know a few famous names, Monet, Rembrandt, Picasso. But there have been millions of artists painting in just the last few hundred years whose names we will never know. They painted for themselves, for their friends and family, maybe for their village. Their names never entered the world stage. That did not make them any less an artist, or their work any less loved.
You do not need to be Monet or Buddha. You must only be you. And your life is unique. Just as my sourdough recipe needed tweaking to fit my life, to produce the best bread in my own unique context. So to do your spiritual practices need to shaped to fit your life, even as they shape your life in return.
If you have tried, and “failed” at a practice in the past ask yourself, did you modify it to fit your unique circumstances or did you try the off the shelf version and it never quite fit?
In my 20s I was introduced to Zen sitting meditation and I loved it, but I found the strict method I was taught left me feeling less calm and centered at the end of a session. Quite by accident one night I discovered that if I practiced while watching the flame of a candle (instead of sitting with my eyes closed) everything clicked into place. I was able to quiet my mind, and by the end of the session I was more centered, calm and focused.
I have been practicing fire meditation ever since (long before I knew such a thing existed officially.) I just knew that it worked for me. Often these sorts of modifications are just that, accidents. But you might have an inkling already of what will help a practice work for you, and just don’t know if such changes are “allowed.” Consider this your permission.
Modify Thich Nhat Hanh’s walking meditation to include your cane or walker. Join a breathwork group and modify the position or breathwork pattern to suit your needs. Experiment.
Spiritual practice at its best connects us to something greater than our surface selves. To the Divine Other, to our truest self, and to the world around us. Thousands of years of human experience have shown us there are near infinite ways to do just that. Everything from the storytelling of the San, to Gregorian chant, to aboriginal Sand Talk. Each culture throughout our long story has found their own unique ways to connect, expand, and go deeper.
So how does one do that?
I think my story about sourdough is a good recipe to use as we modify spiritual practices. First try the thing, though perhaps doing a little research before your first go so you have a better chance at a good experience. Follow instructions a few times, see how things work. Get the feel of the practice as most people experience it.
And then, if the fit isn’t quire right, experiment. Listen to your intuition. When I teach breathwork meditation I remind participants that is is their practice. And that while I will be offering suggestions and guidance during our session they are not only free to, but should, ignore any guidance that doesn’t feel right for them in that moment.
Perhaps you have a physical limitation that makes laying flat on your back problematic, for a practice done laying down, modify! Prop yourself up in a reclined position, or lay on your side, or try a recliner for a safe supported position that may work better for your body.
We are used to taking modifications in things like yoga, or physical workouts for whatever injuries or health issues we deal with. And the same invitation applies to spiritual practices as well. You do not have to sit perfectly still in lotus position to meditate my friends, you do not have to sit at a desk to write love poems to God.
My only caution is this: spiritual practice isn’t always comfortable (I do not mean physical pain here) and our singular goal shouldn’t be simply to stay comfortable. Growth is often uncomfortable. For a lobster to grow it must go through the vulnerability of shedding its exoskeleton. We too have things we need to shed and new things we need to learn.
This I think is how we know that we are growing up, that we can identify our window of tolerance, not of comfort. And that by being willing to be uncomfortable sometimes we can slowly and carefully grow that window of tolerance, going beyond what we were before. (Window of tolerance is a concept from the field of trauma study. You can read more about it in Trauma Sensitive Mindfulness by David Treleaven.)
Recipes after all are just a guide, and once we know them well they are ours to play with and to create something new and uniquely our own.
