The Dilemma of Belief

Often as people age, their faith becomes stronger. I, however, find that I keep undergoing what I term “the dilemma of belief.” I question the reality of a spiritual realm; I toy with my practical doubts that there can be anything beyond this earth-based existence. Yet...and this is a huge yet...my heart is drawn to nature's magic and sings loudly when encountering unexplainable phenomenon, craving the intangible. Thus, I am caught between two worlds. My feet walk the literal, wet, mulched pathways, while my vision soars above, scanning for unseen miracles.

It is not easy to have faith in a world so enmeshed with the material. I understand my desire to feel soft fabrics next to my vulnerable skin, to wrap my tired feet in plush slippers, to dig and plant something in the soil in order to witness new life. I understand wanting warmth and comfort in winter, blue skies and cool breezes in summer. I understand wanting speed and fast communications between one destination and another. But when I start to get lost in what I or my house is to wear or how overfull my life can become with comings and goings, I have to stop and question. I hope there is more than this.

I have found the “more,” the “richness,” cannot be sought. It comes on tiny, silent paws and catches the seeker unawares. Then it is as if an explosion of belief, an “ah ha moment” occurs. I was sitting in the audience at Tsunami Bookstore, listening to a Celtic Winter Concert. There were only two performers: a female violinist/guitarist and a male flutist, both with deep, resonant, pure voices. The concert was ending and they chose to sing an original, ancient Scottish version of “Auld Lang Syne.” Their blended voices were beyond lovely. It was as if they reached inside, cradling and caressing my heart gently in their hands. As I sat there, a visionary, ethereal scene, fanned itself out before me. There was my Scottish, Campbell-plaid-dressed grandmother liltingly dancing the highland fling. Next to her were my mother in a flowing skirt and her handsome brother twirling and waltzing. My Irish great grandmother smiled broadly and beckoned from the side. Tears formed at the corner of my seeing. Was I caught up in my own imaginings? Perhaps. But music is not always of this plane, and why should I not be lifted up there too?

Watching my ancestors' joy brought back my amazement at suddenly seeing an unexpected enormous flock of gulls rise straight up off a white sandy water's edge. Through the foggy twilight mist these birds and their miracle of being had been completely hidden as I walked along a wooden railing overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Although this moment was over half a lifetime ago, I have never forgotten the spiritual infusion this scene provided.

Whenever I start to poke holes in my faith, I return to the evening of my daughter's birth. My two-day labor had been intense. I was nearing ten centimeters and the doctor was nervous about the rhythm of my daughter's heart. I just couldn't seem to open sufficiently to have the natural birth I wanted. But before my imminent C-section, I looked down and saw a bright, flowing light. I knew this was my daughter's spirit and it only mattered that she be brought into this world without further delay.

The spirit world is never as mysterious or faraway as I believe it to be. It is with me, physically and emotionally, if my ears, eyes and mind are open to everyday occurrences. I remember waking in the middle of the night, hearing the notes of my teenage daughter's cello drifting down from her attic bedroom. As I listened more intently, I felt a wetness streaking my cheeks. The lush bass, reverberating chords hit a place within I had forgotten existed: a place which realized how fleeting our life spans, how precious our love and earth bound connections, how wondrous the given glimpses beyond questions of doubt and belief. Where the heart is led is where is heart is home.

© 2012