What Do You Believe?

It is certain because it is impossible.

Tertullian

O, Birther of the Cosmos,
focus your light within us -- make it useful.

from the Aramaic, the original version of The Lord’s Prayer

My father-in-law had a sort of home grown faith. Much of it came through experiences he had with his young son, Gary, who once, or maybe more than once, said, pointing up to the clouds, “Look Dad, there’s God.”

My writing student, Joan Hendrickson, who volunteers for the poet Robinson Jeffers’ Tor House, tells this story: “Do you recall the little Madonna in Jeffers’ tower—in Una’s (Jeffers’ wife) sitting room? It’s origin is thought to be the Carmel Mission. Una took her there for midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, sat her in the pew beside her!”

What are you going to believe? I have asked myself this over and over again, since losing faith, so many years ago, in the Catholic Church’s version of things. When I walk into the woods, every single time I do, the question disappears.

Each leaf, every pine needle, all the dark-eyed juncos, every loudmouthed jay, all the winds coming from each direction, the rocks, the hiding animals, the pines and oaks, the paths between trees, sheltering sky above: my belief is everywhere.