2:04 p.m. - 2005-06-24
Weekends Rant
As Robbie and I fell from the map, I unceremoniously stopped going to the church that resonated so well with some burgeoning part in me. Oh, I went here and there as the spirit moved. Nothing consistent. I believed in something, but I didn't know what. Call it God. The Universe. The Great Kahuna. Some impersonal energy that would someday swallow us whole, like the ocean did the drop. Painless nirvana. However many lifetimes it took, it was pretty much a done deal. I was all over the liturgical map. One spring afternoon, I even found myself kneeling on the burgundy leather in Matthew's old Catholic church. That same day, I called my parents after eight months of silence. They were gracious. Some Sundays, I would sit on the floor at the Bodhi Tree until the sun set outside, unbeknownst to me. I would smell the exotic teas and thumb through everything from Ram Dass to Krishnamurti to Yogananda to Brother Lawrence to Marianne Williamson to Emanuelle, the disembodied guide with the quirky turn of phrase. You could say I was a seeker, albeit an erratic one. On Saturdays, I would ask myself out for a date. Usually, I would accept. It was my favorite thing to do, next to Ward I of course. I would grab a Santoro's Italian coldcuts submarine sandwich, the one with the bread that could crack your front tooth. I would drive to the shady park where Matthew and I had goofed with that dayglo frisbee so very many times. I would sit in the soft grass with my latest spiritual curiosities and a spiral notebook. I would write poetry for Matthew, trying my best to recreate his unique grin on the blank page. I would watch the kids play on the swings with no trace of sorrow. None. I would look up at the sky and feel that all was right with the world, that Mattew's smile was just behind the very next cloud. I had never felt such unconditional peace. Nothing missing. Nothing broken. I felt at home within my own soul. There on the scented grass, somewhere under God.
�
�
