Also, anxiety. Also, restlessness.
How easy it would be to believe and assign meaning to every feeling, every discomfort. This, I did, forever, until.....Didn't I? Wasn't that what I did?
Wasn't I given that huge net beneath my flying beneath my hand over hand over hand up the impossible staircase?
Crawling toward the light. Tucking up this grownup body into the little girl the sheet-swathed girl with golden tinsel singing Silent Night. I write and rewrite and write and rewrite that image. That church.
That God hiding in my eyeballs. Green and yellow black stripes.
"I write about two things--sex and God."
And it was sex that drove the wedge between us. I might have reconciled everything save the guilt from the sex the screw that twisted into me, so deep. Still twisting.
But it can't possibly have any validity. ?? It can't possibly be real.
It can only feel. I can only feel it.
How can a feeling, any feeling, be the basis for anything?
How can I give myself over to the utterly unreasonable the utterly unfounded the utter nonsense?
We Episcopalians say that we don't "check our brains at the door."
Unless this be metaphor, we must all check our brains. For this is not brain.
This is belly. This is hunger. This is longing. This is fear. This is looking up.
And I can't seem to stop looking up.