(no subject)
I have always lived in a bubble, thin and transparent with clouds of greys and clouds of color shifting across the surface as it waited to pop. A little bubble in which I grew. A bubble filled with books and music and learning, but a bubble nonetheless. I came to Mexico with intent. I strove to lose the bubble, to cast it off, to throw it into a river somewhere and never look for it again. To reach through it and destroy it in the process. I came to Mexico intent on being somewhat uncomfortable. I did not expect the discomfort to come from the places I’ve found it in. I expected to find friction in the obvious places, friction between my beliefs, they way I have been raised, and the beliefs of the people of Mexico. I found it there in little moments and it helped me to grow, but the real friction of beliefs came from a place closer to home.
“Do you ever get that feeling? Down in the pit of your stomach? That wanting feeling? Like your missing something you haven’t found yet?”
Rachel looks up at me from the changing table.
“It’s the goodnight my someone feeling you know? From the Music man? Marian teaching Amaryllis to say goodnight to the person she loves on the evening star, whether she’s met them yet or not.”
“Yeah,” she nods, sprinkling baby powder of Conchita’s butt before taping the diaper closed, “ I used to get that feeling. Then I fell in love and I continued to get that feeling, until I found Jesus. It just felt like I’d found the missing peace you know?”
I walked home in a somewhat aggravated daze that night, taking in the smell of the evening air. The wanting feeling is not entirely unpleasant. I’ve assumed that it will always exist. To want is to breath, to be a breathing thinking wanting human being. To want to hope to think of the future while trying to ground yourself in the present. I can’t fill the wanting feeling with Jesus. He doesn’t answer my questions, but there are days in which I wish he could. Days in which I wish for that sort of comforting feeling.
“I think I’ve moved backwards today.” I am looking out the bus window, at the storefront of some Asian restaurant.
“ I’m hearing Jazz music. I want to be 11 years old driving back from camp falling asleep to Public radio in the back seat of my dad’s SUV. I can practically feel the leather on my cheek…”My voice trails off for a moment. “I used to hate it when grownups said they wanted to be children again. I was sure they’d forgotten what is was like.”
Jaclyn turns toward me.
“They probably had.”
“I don’t really want to be a kid again. I think it’s just the feeling. That safe feeling.”
“I don’t know, I don’t think I have that, I’m God’s child no matter where I am.”
There were moments where they made me think, and re-think my positions, and others where I simply wanted to throw something large. (Manipulation hate gay marriage forced unwanted change.)
“ Well I’m taught that the only way to be saved is to Accept Jesus. So I want everyone to be saved, and I do my best to show them. If you don’t it’s like not telling someone when a bus is about to run them over. That’s all they are trying to do.”
“I don’t think anyone can contest the existence of a bus. Is it an invisible bus?”
“I don’t think I’m explaining this correctly.”
“ It’s not that I think they have bad intentions, but food should not come with religious stipulations. And how do they know that they have it right anyway? There a so many people through out the world claiming that they have it right. How would anyone know which religious views are correct? We are not god. How do we know any of them have it right? Religions have been changed by man, written by man.”
“Faith that his words have been preserved.”
“Faith without questions?”
“No.”
“All right then.”
I’m more open to religion now, in some ways, more closed in others. I feel old ideas and new ideas crashing and reshaping in my head. I long for my dining room table, someplace to sort new feelings and information out without any new ones intruding. Oak under my hands and salmon on my plate. I long to stay longer, worried that just as I’m getting truly uncomfortable I will leave, return to my bubble and not think the way I should. I shouldn’t worry. The bubble is not waiting there, the clash will continue. the bubble has gone leaving only it’s remnants, surprisingly un-smooth, chafing my skin.
“Do you ever get that feeling? Down in the pit of your stomach? That wanting feeling? Like your missing something you haven’t found yet?”
Rachel looks up at me from the changing table.
“It’s the goodnight my someone feeling you know? From the Music man? Marian teaching Amaryllis to say goodnight to the person she loves on the evening star, whether she’s met them yet or not.”
“Yeah,” she nods, sprinkling baby powder of Conchita’s butt before taping the diaper closed, “ I used to get that feeling. Then I fell in love and I continued to get that feeling, until I found Jesus. It just felt like I’d found the missing peace you know?”
I walked home in a somewhat aggravated daze that night, taking in the smell of the evening air. The wanting feeling is not entirely unpleasant. I’ve assumed that it will always exist. To want is to breath, to be a breathing thinking wanting human being. To want to hope to think of the future while trying to ground yourself in the present. I can’t fill the wanting feeling with Jesus. He doesn’t answer my questions, but there are days in which I wish he could. Days in which I wish for that sort of comforting feeling.
“I think I’ve moved backwards today.” I am looking out the bus window, at the storefront of some Asian restaurant.
“ I’m hearing Jazz music. I want to be 11 years old driving back from camp falling asleep to Public radio in the back seat of my dad’s SUV. I can practically feel the leather on my cheek…”My voice trails off for a moment. “I used to hate it when grownups said they wanted to be children again. I was sure they’d forgotten what is was like.”
Jaclyn turns toward me.
“They probably had.”
“I don’t really want to be a kid again. I think it’s just the feeling. That safe feeling.”
“I don’t know, I don’t think I have that, I’m God’s child no matter where I am.”
There were moments where they made me think, and re-think my positions, and others where I simply wanted to throw something large. (Manipulation hate gay marriage forced unwanted change.)
“ Well I’m taught that the only way to be saved is to Accept Jesus. So I want everyone to be saved, and I do my best to show them. If you don’t it’s like not telling someone when a bus is about to run them over. That’s all they are trying to do.”
“I don’t think anyone can contest the existence of a bus. Is it an invisible bus?”
“I don’t think I’m explaining this correctly.”
“ It’s not that I think they have bad intentions, but food should not come with religious stipulations. And how do they know that they have it right anyway? There a so many people through out the world claiming that they have it right. How would anyone know which religious views are correct? We are not god. How do we know any of them have it right? Religions have been changed by man, written by man.”
“Faith that his words have been preserved.”
“Faith without questions?”
“No.”
“All right then.”
I’m more open to religion now, in some ways, more closed in others. I feel old ideas and new ideas crashing and reshaping in my head. I long for my dining room table, someplace to sort new feelings and information out without any new ones intruding. Oak under my hands and salmon on my plate. I long to stay longer, worried that just as I’m getting truly uncomfortable I will leave, return to my bubble and not think the way I should. I shouldn’t worry. The bubble is not waiting there, the clash will continue. the bubble has gone leaving only it’s remnants, surprisingly un-smooth, chafing my skin.