Hollow

Thinking about all the time spent in church as a child. Mandatory worship of a mandatory god. Sunday meant mass, no excuses - save illness enough to keep me flat in bed. Catholic school, at least one day a week with my class. And Holy Week meant nine days in a row at church every single day. Singing with the choir for the Easter Vigil service fulfilled my obligation for Easter Sunday, became my favorite service of the year. Ancient songs, incense, candles, lighting the new fire, ritual and costume, got around my distaste at being forced to pretend, and fed some part of me.

I liked being in the choir, singing helped me not hear the words so much. Got to sit up in the loft, away from my parents, out from under their constant scrutiny. I lectored for the same reasons, a bit of margin, a layer of insulation.

Holy Saturday, a day of grey grief, cut adrift from the chains. A moment of respite in the year, when I admitted my drawing away, despite the dire warnings against rejecting the love of gods, turning my back upon salvation. Like the much vaunted, but hollow-chocolate-egg-love of family, I never felt any god loved me. What was I being saved for? And I wonder at those who only live good lives in hope of heaven or fear of hell, and not simply to live one's own and only life as well as possible. Kindness for it's own sake, rather than bribing a god. Oh,I took the shiny wrapped candy, all that was on offer. Even kept a vague affection for the showier foil, the old tunes, a momentary tug even now.

I don't believe there is a god. I don't believe there isn't a god. Belief is such an alien concept to me. The whole argument misses the point, and tires. My mother simply assumed she could dress me in it, and there it would stay, instead of my tossing it aside with as much force as she flung her hated hat to the back dash of the car after mass.

But perhaps it is like being tone deaf, those of us who love music simply cannot conceive how some will never hear the tune.

Our friend scrub jay is back. Lingering on the porch where I put out the peanuts last year. Tapping an expectant beak, as if to demand service. So, I put some out, waited a bare minute... and he just picked one up. Yeah, it's all about proof, sometimes in the form of peanuts.





Moby claimed a spot on the bed last night, a rarity over the past year. Eleanor discomfited, but found another place to settle.


All the peanuts are retrieved, now. I have a bagfull, yet.