(written December 26-30, 2010)
I have always maintained faith in a higher power. In my very early days, my higher powers were my parents and siblings. It only took a few years before my higher power was found in the church hymns sung in my mother's strong, slightly vibrato voice. The messages in the music and the sermons and catechismic indoctrination all directed me toward embracing the biblical god as He was painted and sung for me.(although the painting of jesus that hung in our living room had my dad's beard and I always suspected the artist of using him as a model. This painting still draws my attention when i'm in my sister's living room.) Here is where things get a bit tricky. Not only did I believe in the white guy on a cloud, I also believed that god was in every noun (person, place or thing, animal, vegetable or mineral).
When I came out as a radical feminist separatist, my belief in the patriarchal biblical god transformed into a profound feeling of connectedness to the earth and the feminine faces of god-Isis, Gaia, Kuan Yin, Kali and, my favorite-Inanna, the ancient Sumerian goddess who is said to have braved the seven gates of hell, died at the hand of her sister, and came back through the seven gates after three days transformed into a wiser goddess.
Even though I still believe in a higher power, lately I have been having difficulty feeling that deep connectedness that brings the sacred alive to all six of my senses. I have experienced so much loss this year-Ellen, Walt, Bessie, Kenny (he is important to me because of his fatherly love of my love), and now my beloved furry friend, Cindy. I don't believe any of them would want me to be closed off from myself, the world, or my higher power due to my heartache over loosing them. They each looked at the physical and spiritual world with very different lenses (a liberal christian, a pagan, a humanist, a conservative christian, and she who demanded worshipful adoration, mice and canned food) and none of them would want my faith bricked away by my inability to deal with my loss of them. Most of me understands the changing nature of BEING, a a cycle of birth death and transformation. I've even written about it here several times. However, the super-private inner childish part of me with an iron clad no compromise sense of justice is having tantrums in protest of so much grief, loss and injustice perpetuated by this universe/higher power that I love so dearly. If it has a conscious will, it's just mean and unfair.
I first experienced this awareness of the creator’s hypocritical injustice when I was very young. It wasn't the story of the prodigal son or of jesus' dad sending him to earth as a human sacrifice that first fueled my indignation. The mean injustice of god and universe occurred to me in the beautiful harmonies and whimsical brogue of the Irish Rovers singing "The Unicorn Song". The first time that I remember hearing that song was when my faith in a loving omniscient god first wavered. (That song was released in the same year I was born-1968, so I probably was hearing it before I understood it, but I was very young either way.) How, I questioned in my childish brain, could a loving god wipe out the unicorn, when he could have just waited a few more minutes for them to get to the ark? Even today, I can only listen to that song when I'm alone because it always brings tears to my eyes. Forget me even singing it, my throat gets tight with the grief and injustice of it all.
Maybe this disquieting separation I've been going through is a replay of my inner childish anger at the injustice of it all-losing the unicorns, the pets, the friends that I love. Like when I get mad at Deb and I childishly won't talk, or keep silent for fear something really mean or unfair will fly out of my mouth toward her. Maybe I'm giving my god/goddess/universe the silent treatment and not the other way around. Maybe I am not listening or communicating with Her, like a child, angry and insecure. Not insecure of losing my higher power, but of losing myself, and in not trusting myself enough to keep from falling apart in my grief.