Spirits

Note: This post is about religion, anti-religion, atheism, anti-theism, paganism, and all that sticky stuff. I’m sure you will find this post horrible if you are attached to any religion, so please skip this. I won’t mind and would never judge you, no matter what your religion! Otherwise, read on, fellow heathen!

The legs that curl up into lollipops when a house sits upon them.

Here’s the thing, everyone. For pretty much 25 of the 30 years I’ve so far lived on this planet, I’ve been keeping my eyes out for magic. I would scribble nonsensical stories about girls like me with “magical items” (I was SO into that, a thing that grants power!) that would give them powers to have vengeance over bullies and step-parents. I would read fantasy novels. I would read science fiction. I would eyeball books meant for teen Wiccans and leaf through shiny fake imagery of fantastical creatures. These dreams of magic made my blood sing in my veins, my heart race in my breast. I felt so close to being able to touch magic, that it was just outside my reach, and I was caught in a membrane of mundane that kept me from my true power.

You can imagine my heartbreak when I finally had to admit defeat on the magical front. Lemme tell ya, I tried everything. But first, let’s go back a second.

I was actually raised Catholic. I was splashed with water when I was still a slug, and I took every single rite up to but not including Confirmation into the church. For the longest time, I was devoted to God, because I thought God was the source of power: that magic was God, and God, magic. So I was a good Catholic for the longest time. I would sing, I would pray, I would gaze upon the tortured body of a Jew I’ve been told to love without ever feeling his presence… and then I realised that God that not chosen me.

Now, keep in mind that I still adored magic. I conveniently ignored the famous anti-witch sentiments in the rather horrifying Good News Bible that I was given when I turned eight. I simply thought it referred to something else, something that clearly had nothing to do with me, since I was pretty sure I loved God and Jesus. I definitely loved Mary, the only woman worshiped as much as Jesus. I didn’t see her as my mother, but like an older sister (I have two, remember). If I had a rosary, I tried to get one with only Mary on it (and without dead Jesus on a cross), but sadly, such a thing doesn’t exist.

By the time I was 14, I knew that if God existed, he didn’t want anything to do with me, so I dove into what every single damned 14-year-old 90’s kid dove into and got into Wicca and “Witchcraft”. (I put that in quotes because, really, the stuff they sell is the “Red Shoe Diaries” of Witchcraft. I’ve only found one book in the many many years of reading many, many magic books that came even close to real power. THAT was the “Behind The Green Door” for me.) (Props to anyone who gets any of these references.)

And yet, I put my whole ass into being a witch, even to the point of making my own potions that probably would have killed me had I drunk them. Every single book I had about magic said that power comes with puberty, but that just wasn’t happening for me. This was also a time when one of my sisters firmly believed in ghosts and felt she could see them – especially recently dead relatives. I was jealous of that, so jealous I sometimes cried. I hated stories in which the protagonist curses their power, when I would give my right hand – MY WRITING HAND – for any kind of power.

I eventually fell out of that phase when nothing worked. I didn’t really have a religion by the end of high school. I was focused instead on writing about other worlds that were saturated in the stuff, because if I couldn’t have it, I would make up someone who could in my place (hence why my protagonists always at least slightly look like me. Shut up.). I want to say that somehow that was my religion, but it doesn’t sound quite right.

I think this was close to the time that I started getting drawn into Buddhism. I always found it interesting whenever I heard about it, and was fascinated by the supernatural claims that many of the sects swore their masters could perform. Because I was sceptic but also sadly hopeful that this was my chance to find magic, I decided to study it.

During this time, I also dove back into witchcraft for a while, or wizardry as they call it now, thanks to Mr Potter. I tried to get books written by adults and intended for adults, and I did hit upon some really golden gems that not only offered promise but also gave me amazing reference for my magical novels. And even though every spell failed, I still studied and tried, anyway.

So here I was, in the middle of trying to find magic in two places at once. Eventually, when witchcraft was failing me more and more, and the bare-bones of Buddhism was working more and more (Meditate. I dare you. If you even bother to try and face your own mind for more than 15 minutes, you would seriously start doubting reality. And yes, without drugs.). There was something normal and almost refreshing when it came to the honesty of Buddhism – or at least in some sects (*coughcoughPureLandWTFcoughcough*). Most sects agree that Siddhartha was just a dude who happened to hit on something amazing after working his ass off looking, and decided to share it with others. As it spread, it kinda grew legs in every place it landed, and like most religions, there’s always a different version of the same thing. But at least they seem to coincide, and there are some that appear more sane than others. And the guy died of food poisoning, for dog’s sake. That’s pretty boring compared to other religious leaders’ deaths.

Honestly, my whole point for babbling this is this: Eventually, I came to terms with my lacking any magic power, and it was thanks to Buddhism. Why? Because it allowed me to see the magic that we usually ignore, magic that is real and can be touched and manipulated: nature. I’m grateful to Buddhism for giving me that gift, while also allowing me to maintain that there’s probably no God, but if there is, well, it’d be nice to hear from him. If not, that’s cool, too.

In this day and age of constant holy wars and petty violence over what way is the right way to worship the universal unknown, I’m starting to wonder if sharing religion on such a large scale is such a good idea. I truly don’t think government needs a religious backbone to be moral and just. I think religion is very personal and private, something between you, what you pray to, and perhaps a few others you trust to share it with. You can worship the mould on your wall for all I care, as long as it makes you happy and no one else sad. It’s a personal thing. I resent that religion is a title we all somehow have to bear, even if there’s more than one title to claim. Why do we have to declare how we approach the mythical? Why does it have to be public? Does it make you feel better, to get it off your chest, to let people know? Are you lonely and need company?

I’m actually not joking here, folks. I really do think religion is a private thing. Like I said, I think anyone has the right to worship anything, as long as it hurts no one and makes you or those affected happy. I often wonder if most of the leaders in the world so hell-bent on converting people to their religions were insecure and in need of validation; that if religion can be seen as something personal, there would be far calmer skies and less dead people.

So I guess what I’m saying is this: I don’t mind religion on a small scale. In small ways, it can be wonderful. But not everyone is going to or even needs to agree with you. And that’s okay, too. So maybe, when you start to get to know someone, don’t be nosy and ask about what they worship. It’s none of your business, and it should be up to them if they want to share, and vice versa. If religion is so important to you that you can’t be friends with someone unless they agree with your method of worship, do the world a favour:

Get thee to a religious place, become a drone, and worship there. Otherwise, let it go.

Why is that so hard?!