I was raised in a religious household. I went to church, I read the Bible, I sang hymns, and I got baptized. Twice. There were so many rituals I followed and cherished and anticipated. While I was far from a perfect Christian, my beliefs were woven into everything I did.
In 2013 my father died suddenly, and I remembered the saying that God would never give you a burden you could not handle. I visualized my younger self sitting in sabbath school, content with the knowledge that my father would live well into my adulthood, because that would be the one thing I could not handle. I felt safe and warm then, but the memory sliced through me as I looked at my father’s body in the hospital bed.
Living life as an agnostic has been good to me. My heart is filled with the compassion, acceptance, and love for myself and others that I was missing in Christianity. I live a life that brings me joy and fulfillment. Yet, there is hole left in my chest, one that religion and the belief in something more once filled. Its yearning to be satisfied, while quiet, is constant. I find my heart reaching at the thought of animism, auras, palm readings, birth charts, the third eye, and, even still, the Bible.
This desire to feed the pit in my chest is what is visualized before you. These abstract, intangible ideas permeate my thoughts and create a desire within me to believe again. There is an excited longing that fills my being as I take in these beliefs and hold them, grasping for their answers they claim to provide and connections they offer.
These ideas wrap me up in the blanket of the universe, bonding me to something outside my grasp—a warm hug that allows me to feel intimately, completely, and invisibly part of something more.