it is well with my soul

March 8, 2012

I have a hard time believing in a god. I consider myself an agnostic because I am completely open to the possibility of a god sort of thing out there, I suppose, but that is simply because I feel that one can never really know for damn certain what goes on beyond the three miles or so one can see from one’s own office window. Not that one could even fathom all of what goes on in that three mile approximation, I bet. All the life and death and grit and plush I have experienced and studied in my twenty something years as an information gatherer has curled itself into a long smoky hand of fingers, beckoning me gently down the path of continuous discovery, but it has of yet never shown me anything that makes me think the world and all that’s in it was created just as it is on purpose by a personage. I think of the ways in which all things have come to be as they are, and I think about how everything is constantly evolving and changing and adapting and mutating, and I cannot imagine for an instant that all things have just always been this way, each within its own god given shape and title.

I am however an utterly self aware squatty little midnight tinted pot.

I cannot believe that there is an earth sculptor or nebula splatterer, but it is just as impossible for me to get through a single day without talking to everything exactly as if there were. This has caused me some consternation in the past, and I was hard driven to consider the roots of my stream of consciousness conversations. I arrived at the conclusion that I simply must have something to thank for how beautiful and wonderful and functional everything is in its own peculiar brilliantine shine. Perhaps this is just an emergence of my own need to discuss absolutely everything that I love so that it can hear with its very own nonexistent ears how much it is appreciated; perhaps it is because I was raised as a Christian and got used to having someone to share my every little joy with as a matter of course. One of my earliest memories is of discovering a patch of tiny blue flowers and running all around the yard like a crazy person yelling up at Jesus that it was so awesome that there were blue flowers in existence. (blue was always my favorite color, and there is a sorrowful small amount of blue flower in the world). So maybe I just got the gratitude jones in my bones from the beginning of my time and there is simply nothing I can do about it now. For certain there is nothing I can do about it. As an adult I monitor myself in public places to ensure that I will not go skipping like a pebble over a rippling lake to every mysterious oak or virginal birch and fling my arms around it in a gush of ‘you so fine;’ but that has nothing to do with the fingertips I trail surreptitiously over each bark nor the thanks that seeps out of each digit.

I have noticed that it is ok to talk to inanimate objects when you are mad at them; no one bats an eyelash at a dude yelling at his car for keeling over on the side of the road or some dreadful woman mashing the buttons of the elevator with a laughable stream of verbal abuse. Just find a girl who promises her car a glamour shoot and a new paper rose or who thanks the elevator for working this morning, though, and you have a weirdo. It’s normal to kick offending objects but questionable to caress them.

I find that to be strange.

Anyhow, god. I don’t believe in one, although if one ever wants to change that for me I will be quite happy to entertain their thoughts on the matter. But that does not mean that I live a life void of magic and conversations with my own version of the imaginary friend. It’s just that my imaginary friends all reside within something tangible and beloved, like the end of a candle or the skin of a petal. I am just as crazy as Christians, I will say it right now. But I think I am doing it better, because I am not scurrying around requiring everyone else to say good morning to that rhododendron.


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