Faith
Until today, I didn’t think I qualified to talk about faith. Certainly not my own faith, and I would’ve argued convincingly against there even being such a discrete thing as faith; seemed to me nothing more than hope without worry, aggrandized by women who frequent angel shops to distance themselves from guilty pasts. Valuing logic and facing truths, I wasn’t able to elevate hope in my own life to a level that blindly superceded worry. On what basis was I to believe everything would be okay, and if that wasn’t faith, then I didn’t get it anyway—the whole thing annoyed me. Taken outside a religious context, I could not imagine what folks referred to when they spoke of faith, and frankly, I didn’t think they had any idea, either.
Then, three hours ago, I read chapter one of Sharon Salzberg’s Faith: Trusting Your own Deepest Experience. I almost didn’t read it, so bothersome was the idea of faith to me, but I wanted to get my writing assignment correct, and the workshop leader handed this chapter out as a guide. So, at lunch, I read. And was astonished to learn that I have pretty much been overflowing with faith, as clearly defined by Salzberg, my whole life. It seems no matter how I try, I can’t avoid my unwilling overlap with the angel people.
More than the hope without worry I previously defined it as, faith—despite its lofty reputation—is nothing more than the impetus to move forward. Without knowing where that movement will take you. It is hope, yes, but hope plus action. That very philosophy guides my life, fuels it, keeps me going. “Leap, and the net will appear” is the mantra that has accompanied my greatest adventures and growth, personal and professional.
But for me, this gumption, the striving always to, indeed, be all that I can be, has always felt like a fraudulent virtue, a manufactured faith. Because while my actions appear brave and strong, adventurous, and full of faith, I know that they are often motivated by terror. Or some other force of doom that either way makes forward momentum not so much of an option as it is a desperate struggle to survive. What looks like faith when I buy a house in an unknown city, or take a job that will challenge my limits, or get on stage to improvise before an audience, feels instead like a frantic doggy paddle. Always, there is a tsunami just behind me, ready to smash me under irretrievably, if I don’t outrun it.
I’ve taken my life places that my origins would not suggest; become a person that expands the boundaries I knew growing up. It is difficult to take pride in this accomplishment when always my life feels like running through a tunnel, forcing myself at top speed toward darkness, each step of the way illuminated only after I’ve put my foot down in the black. This, I guess, is faith.
Many times, I’ve cursed that kernel of life inside me that wouldn’t allow me to rest, to stop, to be satisfied with where I was at. Why can’t I be okay with a life of maybe too much drinking? Or settle down into marriage with a man not so enlightened? It would be so much easier if I could be content with the level of existence that is familiar to me; where I know people, and even love them, and they me. I’ve tried, but always there is that warm glow deep inside my chest, and it nudges me, reminds me that I am capable of more, being more, feeling more.
Ten years ago, I went to church, out of the blue, by myself. The kind of church that mother says is riddled with secular humanism, and might open the mind’s door to the devil. An adolescence scarred by fanatical born-again Christian parents ruined most religious associations for me, the word faith included. But this day, I stomached the sign that read ‘church’ and sat down with a mind forced open, and the minister walked us through an exercise to find the place in our body where our sense of goodness was located, could be felt. I experienced a coming alive that day, and connected with a core of goodness in my chest that radiates love, I realized, twenty-four/seven. If goodness that concentrated exists inside me, I determined, I must always be okay; redeemable; worthy of change.
My faith doesn’t always, or even usually, cuddle me in some warm, fuzzy cloak of happiness. But it does inspire me to believe that if I don’t give up, if I just keep going no matter what, something’s bound to happen. And in my lowest times, the sheer curiosity of what might lie ahead keeps me going.
Faith seems to me now the heart’s belief; and belief, the brain’s faith.
Then, three hours ago, I read chapter one of Sharon Salzberg’s Faith: Trusting Your own Deepest Experience. I almost didn’t read it, so bothersome was the idea of faith to me, but I wanted to get my writing assignment correct, and the workshop leader handed this chapter out as a guide. So, at lunch, I read. And was astonished to learn that I have pretty much been overflowing with faith, as clearly defined by Salzberg, my whole life. It seems no matter how I try, I can’t avoid my unwilling overlap with the angel people.
More than the hope without worry I previously defined it as, faith—despite its lofty reputation—is nothing more than the impetus to move forward. Without knowing where that movement will take you. It is hope, yes, but hope plus action. That very philosophy guides my life, fuels it, keeps me going. “Leap, and the net will appear” is the mantra that has accompanied my greatest adventures and growth, personal and professional.
But for me, this gumption, the striving always to, indeed, be all that I can be, has always felt like a fraudulent virtue, a manufactured faith. Because while my actions appear brave and strong, adventurous, and full of faith, I know that they are often motivated by terror. Or some other force of doom that either way makes forward momentum not so much of an option as it is a desperate struggle to survive. What looks like faith when I buy a house in an unknown city, or take a job that will challenge my limits, or get on stage to improvise before an audience, feels instead like a frantic doggy paddle. Always, there is a tsunami just behind me, ready to smash me under irretrievably, if I don’t outrun it.
I’ve taken my life places that my origins would not suggest; become a person that expands the boundaries I knew growing up. It is difficult to take pride in this accomplishment when always my life feels like running through a tunnel, forcing myself at top speed toward darkness, each step of the way illuminated only after I’ve put my foot down in the black. This, I guess, is faith.
Many times, I’ve cursed that kernel of life inside me that wouldn’t allow me to rest, to stop, to be satisfied with where I was at. Why can’t I be okay with a life of maybe too much drinking? Or settle down into marriage with a man not so enlightened? It would be so much easier if I could be content with the level of existence that is familiar to me; where I know people, and even love them, and they me. I’ve tried, but always there is that warm glow deep inside my chest, and it nudges me, reminds me that I am capable of more, being more, feeling more.
Ten years ago, I went to church, out of the blue, by myself. The kind of church that mother says is riddled with secular humanism, and might open the mind’s door to the devil. An adolescence scarred by fanatical born-again Christian parents ruined most religious associations for me, the word faith included. But this day, I stomached the sign that read ‘church’ and sat down with a mind forced open, and the minister walked us through an exercise to find the place in our body where our sense of goodness was located, could be felt. I experienced a coming alive that day, and connected with a core of goodness in my chest that radiates love, I realized, twenty-four/seven. If goodness that concentrated exists inside me, I determined, I must always be okay; redeemable; worthy of change.
My faith doesn’t always, or even usually, cuddle me in some warm, fuzzy cloak of happiness. But it does inspire me to believe that if I don’t give up, if I just keep going no matter what, something’s bound to happen. And in my lowest times, the sheer curiosity of what might lie ahead keeps me going.
Faith seems to me now the heart’s belief; and belief, the brain’s faith.
