Wishful Thinking

Growing up the daughter of two culturally Jewish but atheist parents, I had a lot of questions about God. Why do some people believe he exists and others don’t? If God is real is he mad at my family for not accepting this truth? Why does the girl at school warn, (ie scare,) me that God sees everything and everyone but behaves so meanly to the boy who sits at the desk behind her? Why should I refer to God as “he” when maybe “she’s” a woman? How does anyone know they have the answers when as far as I can tell, no one has any proof to support their claims? My questions were answered patiently and openly by both of my parents. Acknowledging they couldn’t answer me definitively, they stayed comfortable within their non-belief system.

I was left to choose for myself. Be a good person Maddie. Be kind. Be loving. Be generous. Recognize bigotry and don’t tolerate it. Live by these rules, and God, if one exists, will be satisfied. This seemed reasonable, so by the time adolescence was around the corner, I’d turned away from pondering a world beyond which I could see, feel, and touch. I no longer contemplated an afterlife or the existence of a benevolent being. When I lost my father to a tragic accident when I was 15 years old, there was no softening comfort on which to lean. I, with the rest of my family, slammed into a brick wall of grief and despair.

As a young adult in college, the subject emerged anew. Exposure and interaction with peers whose many values mirrored my own but diverged in religious and spiritual beliefs brought my little girl’s questions back to the fore. Queries from friends forced a revisiting of the subject and to my surprise, I was less content relying on my parents’ assumptions of a “what you see is what you get” earthly existence. I wanted more but wasn’t committed to looking for it. Mentally lazy, with a young person’s confident, albeit naive, belief that I had plenty of time to explore, I chose not to delve deeply and again, turned my back on the conscious quest for enlightenment.

A nagging itch remained. A peripheral mind’s eye poked and prodded. In every aspect of life that held meaning, I felt connected to an inexplicable energy that went beyond the temporal and edged toward the intangible. Dreams of my father felt like visits and communion. As a member of a small dance company of six, I had countless experiences in which my artistic director and I exchanged ideas without speaking aloud. Often, she would glance over at me as I stretched and utter the very words I’d been thinking. Or, she’d respond, as if we’d been in conversation, something like, “Totally agree Maddie. Let’s do it that way.” In nature, I’d be enveloped in a love and connectedness that felt both outside of myself and inextricably linked to my very being. My rational brain understood all of this could be easily explained and, at the very least, be coincidental. My instincts said otherwise. My inner voice believed I was ignoring a gift from the universe, and it was time to tap in.

I took my first steps by visiting The Bodhi Tree Bookstore, a metaphysical staple in my West Hollywood, CA neighborhood. Though closed now for over a decade, it was a beloved institution, offering healing crystals, essential oils, incense, and a plethora of books to help guide one’s search for meaning, spirituality, and inner peace. On my dancer’s budget, I left the store laden with all of the above, deciding to forgo dinner that night in exchange for understanding. A “Beginner’s Guide to Meditation” book was amongst these spiritual goodies. I attempted to meditate daily for two weeks straight. My mind never quieted, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a fraud. Not wanting it to be a total loss, I kept the crystals, hoping their healing powers could usurp my pedestrian and banal ways. Every few years, I’d take another stab at it, with varying degrees of success.

By the time I was in my late thirties, I had slowly come to accept that it wouldn’t happen. My quest for enlightenment felt more like wishful thinking than any real path. Hoping my parents had been right that living a life of good intentions and behavior was enough, I set the goal aside as my adult life grew full and encumbered with responsibilities. It came with some surprise when I found myself praying one night as I rocked my toddler to sleep as he innocently attempted to survive an aggressive cancer. At 20 months, he was fighting for his life, enduring months of difficult treatments and painful surgeries. Our bedtime routine of stories, milk, and lullabies felt sacred and profound. Feeling his small body against mine, I found myself within the rhythm of our rocking chair, bargaining and pleading with the very God I had doubted for most of my life. I hadn’t set an intention to pray. It was a desperate and primal plea and felt as natural as breathing. For the first time in my life, I felt connected to what I experienced as the divine. I didn’t feel promised a thing regarding my son’s survival, but in every cell of my body, I felt heard, embraced, and loved. I dove in and haven’t looked back since.

Through the years, my questions about God have gently blended with my hope that we all share a divine aspect of existence. That there is meaning in the simple act of being and sharing space. A belief that this space and time connects me to all that came before and all that will come after. The sacred life I’ve been given is holy whether I pray within four walls of a religious institution or lose the “self” on a mat in a room full of other stretching bodies set to 100 degrees. It’s been a long and winding road. I certainly haven’t landed on solid ground. It feels more like a precarious perch. Life moves. The perch wobbles. I adjust, feeling the equilibrium of my connectedness shift. As I right myself and find my center, it’s with an understanding this temporary place is as close as I will get to knowing God. I accept this, and I am grateful to have come this far.