I believe in so much right now it hurts. It’s just that before I was so wrapped in the bonds of motherhood, of tending and mending, that I hadn’t time to really see much past the tiny socks littering the floor. The tantrums and tum tums were a mandatory, albeit adorable, distraction from all things personal for so long that although I tried to reach past the crazy and into a writing mind, I was frantic with it. Then I was overwhelmed and ornery and grieving the me I wouldn’t ever, never be (all things look impossible from a distance).
Then I found God.
Ah-ha! Right. Me. Cynic. Honorary naysayer of The Good Book. I did not say what god. Here he/she/it/they/we/were/was/are. Here is God: self-awareness; visibility to true desire and a sloughing off of fear. Names get in the way. Prescriptions. Sizes vary as does taste. God to me is one great and powerful self-fulfilling Oz. When does the heroine/hero find the golden egg/ticket/pineapple? When she/he believes (squiggly line. squiggly line) and then she/he goes on to find out it was right there all along. Duh-duh!
There’s all this magic out there and we’re so busy filling our pockets with sand. This crazy thing happens every time I give in and say–Fine, yeah, I know what I really want from this life. I find peace. I find time to do the things that matter to me. I forget about all that judgement and ugliness that can bear down so heavy on a person they think no good will ever come, not never and I drag my sorry ass up and out. I wish I knew how. I wish I knew anything other than what makes me feel good, what gives me the strong, hard-worn belief that Anything Is Possible. But I don’t. I just believe. Isn’t that what God really is?