Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Here, now, open.

So I had that weepy-and-intense religious experience the other night, and then not much. I've thought about it some. I still have a hard time getting the whole relationship thing. I can barely have relationships with people--and now you're asking me to have one with some invisible, uncontainable, indefinable higher being? Yeah. I'll get right on that.

Tonight I was walking Miley, and talking to her about how I was sorry but I couldn't walk in the grass in the rain because I was wearing decidedly not-waterproof boots, and then I realized that if I consider myself a Christian and I can talk to a dog, it's stupid for me to go around telling myself I have nothing to say to God. So. "I don't really feel like I have anything to say to you, but I guess if I can talk to Miley, I don't really have any good excuse not to talk to you." And on from there.

Then, as I approached our driveway, I suddenly remembered that almost every single night for months I have walked Miley and missed having someone to talk to. That's sort of new. I've almost always enjoyed the peace and quiet of walks, and definitely not wished for conversational company. In fact, I have often discouraged other people from walking with me.

It used to be that my prayer time, when I had prayer time, was in the shower. Not particularly for any reason I could discern except that people tend to be more emotional when they're relaxed, and hot water is relaxing, and I knew no one was going to bother me or see or hear me and so I didn't have to feel so guarded. It's not like I ever planned it.

Before that, during my first, horrible encounter with major depression, when I had no experience and no one I trusted and no coping mechanisms to deal with it, late-night walks with Little Bit were my refuge. I never wanted to take them. I fought it tooth and nail. But it was my turn and my parents made me. And most times I ended up stumbling forward, streaming tears, talking to God and begging for a friend or a way out. And eventually, and little by little, I got one. So.

Have you been calling me?

And I'm sorry I haven't picked up. I guess, in my dream, I didn't realize what I was hearing--just like an alarm clock that makes itself a part of the dream until you recognize what you're hearing, and put it together, and rise to consciousness. But I think I'm awake now, and I'm trying really hard to stay awake. Not go sleepwalking through my life. Not wishing I were somewhere else. Not holding my breath. Not barring the door and leaning against it with all my might. I want to be here. Now. Open.

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