Day 13

A day of spirituality

In a car, with a friend, on our way to a city west of here, we spoke about life and things of that nature.

I remembered the morning just before, his mother with her war torn cheeks, the caving skin around her eyes swallowing wading pools washed in honesty and turquoise, she asked me "do you believe in god?"

And I love her, for the hell that she lives in every day, but continues to attempt to make into a heaven for her five children.

I wanted her to be happy, So I lied and told her "yes."

Discussing my beliefs with her son on this night, in a car, with woods surrounding us like forever, I tell him all the reasons why I believe in a thing that I don't understand.
some thing.
Not a god. Not a white man with brown hair. Not an old book. Not a judgmental society.

I believe in a thing that loves all the people that are good,

not just all the people that are straight,

Not just the people that keep their unloved fetuses,

Not just the people that say "fuck" less times than I do,

Not just those that attend lectures by traditional old men thumping on the decaying word of a book of too many authors.

This thing loves everyone that does what they can with what they have, because in this world, we don't have much.

We only have our ability to try our best to be something useful.

My friend tells me that he believes in the sensation of life that he feels in his heart when he plays music, "that is my god" he says. And I think this god is right for him. I think we all need some thing that is just right for us.

We all have our art that lives in our own bodies.

it drives us to be good,
to be humble
and vulnerable
and to reach out to people that don't always deserve our open hand,

because we know that we have created things from our own human imperfection,
and sharing is our god.

So when his mother asked me if I believe in god, maybe I wasn't lying.