I often wonder if I have enough faith to navigate my way in the world.
I’m pretty sure I don’t.
It’s the stubbornness that keeps me here, keeps me hurtling forward, running too fast to ever actually slow down.
To just be.
I’m a runner, I get that.
I’m not in denial, pretending to be a different me.
Have you ever stepped foot inside a temple of worship, and truly felt at home?
Really examined the beauty of ritual, the light reflecting the stained glass, the prayer walls, or the golden Buddha’s sitting silent thousands and thousands of years before us.
Which religion does not matter so much when you find yourself immersed in a sea of believers.
There is something mystical and powerful inside the hearts of souls filled with prayer and certainty.
Not me.
My prayers have gone mostly unanswered and my faith diminishes with the passing of time.
The faded memories of all that has been lost.
It’s hard to be a grown up when the world around you acts so childish, devoid of hope.
I must have been happy once, filled with faith and conviction.
Surely I loved God when I sat in the Sunday pew squirming week after week.
Fuck it, I thought with every loss.
Why should I pray shouting into the void when no one’s listening?
I was a shitty Catholic and a bit better Buddhist.
Mostly because I’m drawn to mala beads and Buddha statues collected during my travels over the years.
Each trinket attached to a happy place or even a grief stricken moment in time, grasping tight to some figurine.
For grounding and stability.
The diamond cross I wear around my neck reminds of broken promises, and that I am so much better off unattached and free.
The Buddha hanging close to the cross, a Christmas gift from my mother after 9/11 marking the end of a joyful decade filled with big apple dreams.
I stopped buying jewelry, collecting stuff and started searching inside for the stars and sparkly things.
I catch myself sometimes conversing with God, seems silly doesn’t it.
Maybe my faith lives under the sea inches below the surface, where I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my back, and the moist mist of breath kissing the air.
That’s where faith lives for me.
In between the exhale.