It's hard to work in a field, harvesting what you grew from seeds or saplings, in the company of cheerful animals, and not believe in a higher power. If that causes some folks to laugh, then so be it.
For a dyed-in-the-wool agnostic, I've been thinking a lot about faith, lately. Some of this comes from discussions with friends who have serious, deep, and abiding faith, some from defending those same friends from other friends who think that religion is that which destroys civilization, and some from just being.
My garden is usually the top spot for inspiration. I don't know if my neighbors think me peculiar or not, but when my hands are deep amid some branches, picking fruits, I can't help but sing songs from Godspell. And that just sets me to thinking about how I managed to (a) live this long as a crazy person, (b) get such darned tasty stuff to grow in my little yard, and (c) get such good people to be my family and friends. It didn't happen on account of my good looks and charm.
And then the other night I was winding down from a miserably hot day with a cool bubble bath -- I had poured a healthy dollop of a brand-name liquid dish detergent which advertises its scent as "aromatherapy relaxation formula with Lavender and Ylang Ylang (whatever that is)" -- and I had a Don Ho moment: I turned the soap bottle upright and gave it a little squeeze, releasing dozens of tiny bubbles into the air.
I watched as those bubbles swirled about over my head, squeezed again and made more. There was plenty of foam forming about my feet, as well, but my mind was on those above, dancing and spinning apart.
It didn't take long, though, before most of them had giddily found their ways into walls, towels, or cats' whiskers, and I eased myself into the icy waters of the tub to enjoy the mass of cool foam.
Long after, I lazily looked up toward the light. Halfway between the center of the ceiling and the window, shining, alone, was one small transparent orb, not moving more than a gentle swaying in mid-air. It seemed undisturbed by the cold blast of air from the little air conditioner in the window. It did not rise. It did not shift but a mere breath. Its surface did not weaken. The bubble simply was.
The bubble seemed to last and last in a contented center of all, completely on its own. I had to rise from the waters and walk around the room before I could see that this tiny soap bubble had become attached to a gossamer thread. The web was only visible when the light struck it exactly so. Move a millimeter in any direction, and it vanished again.
All the other bubbles which had been released into the air had spun out, hit hard and destroyed themselves, but this lone one had found a way to hold itself fast and keep its life and its near-perfect spheric beauty, its singular presence, by clinging to an invisible thread.
Down below, the foam sat steady, as well. The bubbles there, however, pressed against each other and made flat, common walls between themselves to hold fast to the next one. They were a dense and strong community.
When we live among others, we support each other, keep each other alive, keep each other in constant contact with day-to-day reality. We shape each other. Those common walls are often constraining, but they also make us more than what we are; they make us part of a large, frothy, insulating whole. But we can not always be part of that whole. It is our nature to be social and solitary both.
As our minds take us to those lonely places, we need a way to keep ourselves grounded in this universe. Regardless of what names one gives it, it helps to have an invisible thread to hold us in our own peculiarly elegant forms, to steady us, to keep us from giddily spinning out of control and crashing into walls, towels, and cats' whiskers.
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