“This mountain is so formed that it is always wearisome when one begins the ascent, but becomes easier the higher one climbs.” – Dante Alighieri

There’s a memory I have from my primary school days–or rather, a series of memories which have coalesced into one distinct impression. About once a week, our class would be marched off to the nearby parish church for ‘adoration, which was essentially a mini-mass. Towards the end of the service those in attendance were invited to offer up their own personal prayers. These supplications varied from week to week; they might be aimed towards peace and reconciliation in global conflicts, or success with renovations and school fêtes. Yet, on every single occasion, one older gentleman would repeat the same two requests with moving sincerity: he would pray first for the repose of the soul of his late wife, and “for all those souls in purgatory who cannot help themselves.”

Something urgent, even ominous, seemed to suffuse those ten words. I’ve used quotation marks here only because I still recall so vividly the gravelly timbre of his voice, and the chorus of amens which would invariably meet it. Heaven and hell were both easy concepts to grasp, even at that age; but what was I to make of this shadowy liminal space, which I could conceive of only as some sort of uncanny, eternal waiting room? Even today, the idea exerts some of the same disquieting fascination over me, and I’ve found that it’s easy to find echoes and traces of it once you start looking. All of which begs the question: is this preoccupation with purgatory simply an obscure hobbyhorse, or might this archaic concept–rooted in the self-flagellatory world of medieval Christianity–hold some enduring relevance today?

To begin, a brief crash-course in personal eschatology. Purgatory, according to Catholic dogma, is reserved for those neither quite vicious enough for hell nor sufficiently virtuous for heaven. It is not a permanent destination, but–in the words of the Catechism–somewhere where souls “undergo purification, so as to achieve the holiness necessary” to one day be admitted through the Pearly Gates. Hochelaga, a YouTuber specialising in theological and mythological topics, simply calls it a “bootcamp for the soul”.

It is a tenet which many other Christian denominations do not recognise. For example, the origins of the Protestant Reformation in the 16^th century had a lot to do with the practice of indulgences, the Church’s lucrative trade in purgatorial ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards. However, there are approximate analogues to be found in many other religious traditions: Gehenna in Judaism, Al-A'raf in Islam, Naraka in Hinduism, and even the Asphodel Meadows of Greek myth. Across time and space, it seems we’ve always needed somewhere to consign the middling and mediocre. 

In Purgatorio, the second part of the Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri envisions this in-between realm as a towering, seven-tiered mountain. Each terrace presents its own trial, designed to expunge one of the 7 Deadly Sin. The going for Dante and his trusty tour guide, Virgil, is slow and arduous, but, in contrast to their earlier descent through the circles of hell in Inferno, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. A secular reading might easily see in all this an analogy for the road to recovery–be that from depression, grief, addiction, or something else. It is a circuitous route, and one along which we are almost certain to stumble many times, but it is never insurmountable.

If we were to take the Florentine poet at his word, Mount Purgatory would be located somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean (at the antipodes of Jerusalem). But we might also borrow Robert Macfarlane’s evocative turn of phrase and choose to treat it as a ‘mountain of the mind’. After all, experiencing the emotions associated with purgatory–fear, shame, desperation, helplessness–hardly requires a grand, cosmic odyssey. They are simply features of life. Too often, the moment of elation one enjoys when looking down from the proverbial peak is eclipsed by the next looming ridge; indeed, we might feel in better company with Sisyphus than with Dante and Virgil.

Sociologist Corey Keyes has coined the term languishing to describe this distinctly purgatorial state of alienation and inertia, which can arise even in the course of the most superficially ‘successful’ life. It isn’t a diagnosis per se, but represents a departure from flourishing, associated with feelings of connection and purpose. Any given person will find themselves fluctuating between the two at different stages of their life; the danger lies more in becoming stuck and dispirited over long stretches of time. For Keyes, relationships and community are the most effective buffers against languishing. As lost souls, we aren’t always well equipped to help ourselves–which is all the more reason to help others, and to let ourselves be helped in turn.

A similar message lies at the heart of Typhoons, the third studio album from British rock duo Royal Blood. Atop disco-infused rock grooves, bassist/vocalist Mike Kerr reflects on an intense battle with alcoholism and the long road to sobriety. From the vicious cycle of self-destruction (“Can't live like this forever / Running out of lifelines”) and denial (“I need waking up, I should face the truth / I could calm the storm if I wanted to”), the album ends on the quietly hopeful note of All We Have Is Now, with its moving call to “have no fear” in the face of trials and tribulations.

Strictly speaking, it isn’t Purgatory which Kerr uses as a metaphor for his journey of recovery, but instead Limbo. In Dante’s telling, the latter isn’t quite so gruelling as purgatory - if the latter is a bootcamp, limbo is instead an anteroom for ‘virtuous’ non-Christians such as Socrates, Plato, and Saladin. The Florentine poet describes limbo as a place of “sorrow without torment”, and a similar atmosphere suffuses the Royal Blood track of the same name: as the recording fades to silence with an eery, looping outro, the listener could easily be left feeling “numb … defeated … [and] paralysed”. But we have the benefit of knowing how the story really ends; in an interview for NME, Kerr spoke to feeling “like a better person” after having finished recording the record. Call it a provisional state of grace: “it doesn’t mean that I’m not a human being who can’t experience darkness,” Kerr was quick to add.

Without the consolation of faith and the promise of ultimate salvation, this is perhaps the best we can hope for. At times, we might be convinced that heaven is a place on Earth, only to swiftly find ourselves hurtling uncontrollably down the highway to hell. Dante, at least, had a guide - a travelling companion certainly makes the ascent up Mount Purgatory that bit more bearable. We might feel like helpless souls, but we need not be hopeless ones. With patience, there is an eventual moment of redemption awaiting us all. And ultimately, to invoke the immortal wisdom of Miley Cyrus: it ain’t about how fast we get there–it’s the climb.