A Lapsed Atheist

Schooled in the Catholic tradition, I embraced its tenets and its rituals with utter, unshakeable faith, despite growing up in a household that fluctuated between devout Anglicanism (mother), blatant atheism (father - the Catholic!) and a pervading sense of hedonism. The god of my youth, on the cusp of having a make-over during Vatican 2, demanded my attention and non-questioning belief and the nuns who taught me made sure of it. They were convincing and I seriously considered joining them until my mother, sensing their influence, made it very plain, "OVER MY DEAD BODY!" Every year, to my adolescent embarrassment, I won the school Religion prize. That just wasn't cool and I remember cringing as I slunk to the stage to accept. There always seemed to be a deathly silence accompanying it. The nuns were smiling, but my parents were, well, bewildered. I wanted the prize for intelligence, not blind, un-empirical belief and I began to resent those prizes. Faith clung to me like a mantle. Friday evenings were spent with similar minds discussing theology as part of the Children of Mary. Needless to say my parents were becoming very concerned that this was the sum of my social life and my mother all but handed me the razor and tweezers to 'tidy up' my monobrow and my legs. I loved the comfort of my belief, but, every now and then doubts arose. I don't know where or when or why, but the doubts began to take over and, besides, Cat Stevens was providing all the philosophy I needed. I became a lapsed Catholic. Later, that 'lapse' morphed into a confused sort of atheism that has suited me just fine. After all, I don't need to believe in anything, except the dignity of life and a sense of justice and compassion. But every now and then doubts arise. They come unbidden. They catch me in both quiet and noisy moments; with family, with friends, when writing and when I connect to that poised and peaceful centre during yoga. As I get older those doubts arise more often, despite the logic of my mind. What to make of it? Perhaps I'm a lapsed atheist. 

The wisdom of a head cold

Some days you just have to admit defeat, climb into bed and doze away a head cold. Soldiering on isn't necessarily good for you. I know because I'm a stoic. You just about have to 'break' my legs before I'll give in, and even if I do I become wracked with guilt about what I'm not doing - whether it's planning lessons, working on a new project, paying bills or folding the washing; or even more pathetically, that i might be causing more work for someone else. This week I gave in. I stayed in bed, just for one day. For many this is no big deal, but for me it is. My head cold wouldn't let me get up anyway. So I dozed, with one hand clutching a fist full of tissues, the other on automatic reach for a sip of water. There's a healing space somewhere in that sleepy fog. With the blanket over my eyes I entered a subterranean world where the 'things to do' list was forbidden. Every time my consciousness rose to the surface and I mentally thrashed about as I thought of something i should be doing, I was scolded. The head cold was in charge. The head cold was my mother telling me I didn't have to go to school and could just stay in bed. The head cold was my partner (an excellent nurse) who told me I do too much and he could see this coming a mile away. Why was the head cold never me? Back down in the subterranean world, visions of things on the 'to do' list were allowed to swirl. I noticed that something very significant was missing. Where was writing? Was it really not on my list of things I should be doing? So that's what's wrong with me, I realised as I broke the surface of semi-sleep. I blew my chaffed nose, had a long drink of water, and laid back down for some true healing. Thanks head cold. 

Ahhh

Just wrote the most profound, earth-shaking blog and it's disappeared! Blow!

The beacon in the mail

It seems ironic that, as a writer (at least I like to call myself that!), and having given up full-time employment to perfect my craft, I'm not finding the time to sit down to do it; it's an annoying fact. Why? Because I'm resistant to value it on equal standing with everything else I do. It's easier to justify myself when I'm working at a mainstream job, when I'm studying to create a new pathway, when I'm 'doing' for my family. I teach others how to write a novel and don't sit down to do it myself. Every now and then I have to remind myself of why I chose a new direction in my life. The pages of my leather-bound journal hold the promise of my new novel. A few weeks ago they were open in an invitation for me to write; lately that journal shifts loosely in the bottom of my bag, or worse, is left at home. But there is a beacon, calling me to write, to remember why I do it. It will arrive any day now in the mail. I'm excited, and know that I'll tremble just a little when it comes. I'll tear open the wrapper, but will be anxious that this exquisite pleasure will be over too soon; there might be a five year wait again until the next time. Tim Winton, my beacon.