Ecstatic revelations: The sacred tradition of devotion (religious, romantic, or otherwise)
Musings on Tirzah’s ‘Devotion’, ayahuasca retreats, and the patron saint of headache sufferers, Teresa de Ávila.
There’s one song I will always come back to: ‘Devotion’ by Tirzah. It’s off her debut album of the same name, which came out in 2018 – almost 7 years later and I am still haunted by this song (the accompanying LP, too, but not to the same extent). Like everything that Tirzah, Mica Levi, Coby Sey et al. do, it’s rough, sparse and immediate, studiously unpolished and faultlessly precise.
What’s funny is that when it was first released, I could barely stand to listen to it. I was 23 and the DIY, unfinished quality and earnestness of the lyrics felt grating – especially when I learned that it took two years to record and that the songs themselves were penned over a much longer time period, one being literally written when Tirzah and Levi were 13. It felt disingenuous that a project that long in the making should sound as straight-from-the-heart as it did. Now, I get it.
As I edge closer to 30, my concept of time has expanded – two years (ten years, even) doesn’t seem so long. I’ve also realised, through many failed creative experiments, that one of the hardest things to do is capture an emotion without it sounding trite or contrived. What, in particular, makes ‘Devotion’ (the song) stand out to me is that it speaks plainly about the simplicity, but also the impossibility, of so many of our romantic desires.
‘Devotion’ opens with an appeal to be seen – a repeated refrain of ‘‘so listen to me, so listen to me” sung by Coby Sey – and then segues into a pleading desire for whatever small sliver of reciprocation is on offer, whether it’s a lover’s arms, their kisses, kitsch romantic touches like candlelight or, as the song suggests, devotion. The song speaks to our wish to be the centre of someone’s universe but there’s also a sense of realism in Tirzah’s detached delivery: an awareness that the love we want and feel like we need isn’t always reciprocated or, crucially, isn’t always reciprocated enough.
Ultimately, ‘Devotion’ isn’t about being devoted to someone – it’s about wanting someone to be devoted to you. It’s an appeal for the kind of unconditional love which you hope will absolve you of your problems and heal the part of you that feels unlovable. Thanks to a host of online dictionaries, rather than lived experience, I can see that the word is closely affiliated with religion – devout, being a case-in-point. It’s also, interestingly, connected via its Latin root to spells, conjuring and consecration. When you are devoted, you’re in the business of transformation, of making something sacred. You, yourself, transform, too. Even if your feelings aren’t reciprocated, it doesn’t matter. You’ve allowed yourself a brush with the sublime by cultivating emotions that transcend logic and are so outsize to reality – it’s a leap of faith into the abyss.
When I think about devotion, I think about Christian mystics. Teresa de Ávila is, and forever will be, one of my obsessions. She’s the patron saint of headache sufferers (relatable) and someone who believed strongly in cultivating her personal relationship with God. He (She? They?) would speak to Teresa in visions and she would go into raptures, supposedly levitating above the ground – though historians think she may have suffered from a rare form of epilepsy. Regardless of the technicalities, if you’ve seen Benedetta, you get the picture.
When I read about saints like Teresa, a woman whose love of God was so intense it manifested physically, I think about how so many of us want to love and be loved. We want to be consumed and to consume. We want to blur the edges between us and our lover. We want a simultaneous orgasm that feels like we’re both crossing over into a space beyond the physical. In short, we want a transcendental experience.
But is that even possible now? In our loveless, shallow society, people have given up on love and religion. Instead they parlay their 30-something existential crisis into an ayahuasca retreat that they think will help them communicate with the universe. Or, worse, they tap into ‘something bigger’ by sharing memes on their burner account.
It’s time to rebel. Get in touch with your soul, your sense of being a human capable of ill-advised romance and stupid adoration. Throw yourself into a relationship too soon. Surrender to a lover’s embrace and embody the painful vulnerability of loving someone more than you should. In short, devote yourself to the cult of love.