That God is, perhaps, is the only belief I hold with any complete certainty.
And even in that, at least 40% of me knows full well that all this ‘evidence’ could be my own willful misinterpretation.
Fine.
Perhaps it is.
But whatever it is in me that calls out for Something outside of me is as insistent as the need to eat, the urge to write. Maybe it would be different if I had been raised differently, given a different set of values and loyalties.
I can’t know that.
I do know that beauty – even stark, powerful, terrifying beauty – has always told me a story about things unknown. And I have listened, have been listening, my entire life.
The language is foreign to my humanity, my physicality, but it is the music of home to some other, deeper, better, buried part of who I really am.
I don’t know the story. I’m still listening. Trying to hear. Learning to be still and let the music drop through me and hit bottom, get to that place where I can understand the meaning, one half-note at a time.
My instincts know what to do.
My intellect, however, has different goals: wants to understand, analyze, categorize, extract data, gain knowledge, form a system.
My intellect would study the molecular structure of water. My instinct would stand outside and feel the rain.