The U.S. is a literal place; we tend to lean away from things that cannot quite be named. We resist experiences that are slow, subtle, indefinite and deep—which happen to be the experiences that matter, that promote growth, that change us. Americans usually have little patience for the slow process of describing something that is hard to grasp. Americans are uncomfortable with issues that preclude correct answers, and with objects (like art works) that require our participation to understand.

Consequently, as natural as the instinct is, in this society it takes courage to yearn. It takes the full spectrum of the human heart (the etymological sense of the word courage) to overcome the reifying pressures of our culture and the demands of our institutions—often even our religious and artistic institutions—to hear and follow yearning’s delicate insistence.

Spiritual and artistic experiences do not just happen to us; we create them. Whether consciously or not, we create our spiritual experiences using the same internal abilities and processes that we use to create artistic experiences. Many teachers and traditions are dedicated to the development of these spiritual skills and practices; many teachers and traditions are dedicated to the development of these skills in the arts. This book explores the ways that art and spirit are the same. We will inquire into the skills and practices in both realms that overlap to make a difference in our everyday lives.

The domains of art and religion are usually seen as separate. Both are identified by their nouns: paintings and symphonies, beliefs and rituals, media (like clay and oil paint) and stylistic schools (like impressionism and abstract expressionism), denominations and sects. Nouns specify; they distinguish this from that, this maple from that oak. Noun-focused definitions disconnect oil paintings from clay sculpture, Catholics from Baptists, atheists from agnostics. The institutions that support art and religion are invested in their differentness; the distinctive features of their specialty create their livelihood, their identity. How often do classical violinists seek to identify themselves with country fiddlers? Do mullahs get a turn in a Methodist pulpit?  …

But underneath that surface separateness live the verbs. The verbs tend to unite. In the heart, mind and spirit, Methodists do mostly the same things that Muslims do; actors do many things that dancers do. And further, playwrights do many things that prophets do, stage managers do many things sacristans do, and choirs sing inspirationally in both worlds. We must remember this in our noun-centric world: nouns tend to separate us, verbs tend to unite us.

This natural union of religion and the arts flows like a water table underneath the surveyor-delineated and legally owned parcels of land, the houses and businesses on the surface of all of our lives. Yet, we all rely on this subsurface water to keep us alive, to provide the sense of meaning and personal fulfillment that we struggle to find in our aggressively materialistic and just-getting-by culture. The long mysterious life of the water table doesn’t care about the topographical legalities, about what it’s called or where the well is dug; it just flows, providing what we need to stay alive. We all do many things that artists and religiously creative people do. We all engage in the same actions that underlie the surface separateness of a world addicted to nouns.

In the four years of writing The Everyday Work of Art (1997), I came to see the natural, overlooked artistic abilities, the verbs of art, that all of us have and use to create the greatest satisfactions in our lives. I noticed that bookstores tended to stock it in the “spirituality” section, even though the publisher indicated to shelve it with either “art” or “self-help.” That pattern intrigued me and sparked further thinking about the spiritual themes in that book.

In the subsequent twenty years it took to write this book, I came to recognize the overlooked spiritual abilities that all of us have and use to find the truth and meaning we yearn to know. I now see that these abilities in art and spirit are mostly the same; these verbs of art and spirit play together upon this common ground. You might call that common ground a personal religion.