By my nature, I’ve always been a spiritual person. My earliest thought of God (I must have been all of 3) was of a gigantic hand reaching down out of the clouds to pull stitches from my life as if it were a tapestry. My mother always told me that if I told a lie, God would do that, and she obviously made quite an impression on my very young mind. I was never much of a liar, and I had a firm fear of consequences and what God could do to shorten my life. Nonetheless, somehow, my soul felt an affinity for this God who could do me so much harm. I went occasionally to an Episcopalian Sunday school and listened to Bible stories (and afterward, at my sister’s prodding, stole the cookies that were stored at the top of a cabinet–she was the real culprit being 10, while I a mere 5). My parents were definitely NOT religious. My father, an agnostic, for personal reasons strongly disliked the Catholic Church. My mother, resolutely pronouncing herself a Catholic, could be seen at BINGO, but never at Mass. I had watched movies, and all godly people were personified as Catholic. My favorite was “The Song of Bernadette” (my patron saint and the origin of my name-of-choice, Bernie). What really sank home was when the Virgin Mary told young Bernadette, “I cannot promise you happiness in this life, only in the next.” That resonated with me, and so I went to my parents and asked that they allow me to become Catholic (the Catholics don’t actually baptize you again but merely do something mysterious that transforms you into a TRUE Believer). I was allowed to go to Catechism classes (I loved them, and the nuns and priests loved me!) and made my First Communion shortly thereafter with the younger children (I was 10, they, 7).

All I can say is that I truly loved everything about church and Catechism, the nuns and the priests. I would take the bus to attend Mass at St. Jarlath’s Church in Oakland every Sunday I could. I loved the dark, stoney cold and incense of St. Jarlath’s with its beautiful stained glass and baby crying room. Here, alone, I could feel God, the mysticism, the divine energy, the peace of simply being. I was a very strange child.

I remained Catholic into my high school years when I was invited to a Presbyterian youth group. I asked my priest for permission to attend, and he agreed, stipulating only that I not end up leaving the church, which, quite quickly, I did. Nothing like Born Agains to let you know that you’re part of the Anti-Christ’s church and are going to Hell. I had six months earlier received a Bible from an older sister and had read the entire New Testament. Spiritually reinforced, I embraced everything from fundamentalism to evangelism and back. I loved God and wanted nothing more than to live my life dedicated to Him. Somewhere in the midst of all this fervent worship, I also was introduced to Mormonism, which was quickly disposed of despite my affinity for that church’s commitment to large families and the concept of pre-existence with God. I wanted to be a Mormon, but the teachings didn’t jive with my Born-Again doctrine.

To sum up the next 20 years or so of my Christian life, I moved to Ireland, joined a Baptist Church (baptized again by total immersion), reached out to an American evangelical group that had Bible study and prayer meetings for college students (I met my first husband, the father of my girls, at one such meeting), and later embraced an ecumenical charismatic group dedicated to prayer and the Gifts of the Spirit–yes, “tongues,” prophecy, healing, all the things I felt should be available to the truly devoted Christian. I wholeheartedly believed that if you claimed to be a Christian and followed God’s teachings, then your life, your thoughts, your actions should swim in the pool of spirituality. That said, one would never look at me and think, “Oh, she’s an uptight, rigid, religious nut.” I knew a lot of those folks who fell on their knees, begging for God’s forgiveness every single time they came together to worship. My belief was we were redeemed, forgiven, and ready for action. To stay on one’s knees crying for what was already given was a wasteful use of time and energy (and pretty repulsive).

I was very happy with our charismatic prayer group. Although mainly Catholic, we didn’t rigidly follow doctrine (which I wouldn’t have bought into), but really were centered on love and joy, singing, supporting each other, “going for a pint,” or sharing hospitality with each other, and generally being great friends. We were Community. I met many of my best friends there, one being a Catholic priest from Belfast (who flew out the moment he heard about my daughter and led the funeral service). And then the Recession brought us all to our knees in a way God’s power never required. Our friends left Ireland to find work in England, on the Continent, in Canada, and the States. We ourselves ultimately emigrated to California. With 22 percent unemployment in Cork City and no jobs anywhere in Ireland, we had to build a life somewhere to support our family even if it meant leaving the people we loved behind. It was heartbreaking.

Even the most focused and driven individuals will hesitate to challenge their peers on counterproductive actions and behaviours if they believe those actions and behaviours were never agreed levitra on line sale upon in the first place. The drug will be delivered to you in your presence only that is the reason; a lot of medicine producing order levitra on line why not try here company has come to the forefront in the last 10 years or so. Only disability downtownsault.org online prescription viagra due to arthritis or rheumatism is more common. Alcohol has deep and tragic effects on both physical and mental activities among discount levitra here weak and tired people. And what followed perhaps was worse. I saw what right-wing Christianity was about in America and retched. The fundamentalist and evangelical hypocrisy, the hatred, the perpetual focus thrown on sexual “sins” and abortion. Where was the love??? Where was the support? I sought out and found one Catholic Church that was quite liberal and tried to fit in, and did for the most part, until the Bishop took offense at the too-liberal priest and moved him out of the area. After that, I wasn’t interested. My husband was a Catholic School teacher (ultimately more ammo against the Church), and my girls were educated at his school, but I found myself rejecting any paternalistic religion, especially after making the terribly wrenching decision to split from my husband. I found my soul still loved Jesus, but my mind and heart sought the Mother.

Although I had always been a Christian, my heart belonged to the Earth, to magic, to mystery, to the Feminine. Somehow, I never stopped believing in the possibility of the unseen world around me, of fairies and nymphs, of elves and spirits, the things you glance at out of the corner of your eye, the whispers in the wind. I believed in the energectic power to change outcomes and even matter. I knew I was being ridiculous by the world’s standards, but I never gave up on the possibility of the unknown. Though “The Song of Bernadette” may have been my early life’s theme, “Finian’s Rainbow,” “Brigadoon,” and “Practical Magic” were my dreams. So, here I was in my late thirties, suddenly rejecting Sunday worship for Wiccan classes and clairvoyant readings, for meditation and pendulum work. While my religious practices provided structured meaning and purpose for my mind, body, and spirit, my pagan beliefs set me free from the rules, restrictions, and judgments. I learned to embrace myself as wise woman and guide, to forgive my imperfections, to trust my inner voice rather than the man (or woman) behind the pulpit. I looked inside and found untapped power to manifest my desires and dreams on earth. And I could embrace all of my beliefs, including those involving Jesus, as long as they rang true for me and didn’t contradict my personal ethics and values. While my life wasn’t suddenly transformed into some gloriously happy journey, at least more interesting opportunities presented themselves.

And now, here I am, many, many years later, having lost one of my beloved daughters and wanting more than anything to retain the experience and presence of her in my life. My single goal since she left has been to maintain open communication channels and do the work that would allow me to experience her on whatever level she is available. And so it has been. Yes, I have heard her voice very clearly, I have experienced her presence around me guiding me, supporting me in this huge loss. Every day I have woken and reached out to her, listened for her whisper, her laughter, looked for signs of her being near me (shiny dimes, lost items reappearing, funny coincidences that would leave me momentarily smiling). And I’ve found that this very craving to keep Jess with me has perhaps been the root of much of my suffering and paralyzing despair. I lay awake one night after dreaming that I paid a trillion dollars at a Sotheby’s auction for a black t-shirt belonging to Jessie and realized that because I believe she is still here, albeit in a different dimension, I seek her constantly and cannot let go (not that you ever really let go of someone you love, especially your child).

I began contemplating what it would feel like to believe in nothing beyond this physical plain. What if there is no spirit? What if there is no afterlife? What if we just die and go “Poof!”? What if my dear Jessica Ellen Marie is gone from me forever? As I ruminated on these ifs I faced the “truth” that I have no physical proof for any of my spiritual beliefs, be they Christian or pagan. I have incredible stories of how I prayed or did a spell for something, and within hours my prayer or conjuring was fulfilled. But that’s not proof. I “know” things about people, have “read” people until they were shocked at what I knew but shouldn’t know. But perhaps given our incredible brains, all of this clairvoyance is actually a normal human skill I’ve managed to develop? I have manifested all that I really wanted in life…but at what cost?

I decided then that I would put on, at least temporarily, a coat of atheism if possible, agnosticism if nothing else fit, and judge for myself if this would ease my pain and make this loss bearable. After all, if Jess is gone–totally gone–than I will be too, poof! And sooner than later in the scheme of things. Now, when she comes tiptoeing into my heart, I don’t speak to her. I tell myself, “Jess is gone forever. Get over it.” I don’t allow her memories to dwell in my mind. I’ve shut the door, added double chains and deadbolts. And the pain has decreased…a lot. The pain is under lock and key, and I’ve found that it still can explode free, but much less frequently. Of course, my life feels very flat, two-dimensional now without spirit, without magic, without possibility. But without Jessie, my life, the person I was, is gone anyway. What matter this? The judge is out though on if I can maintain this way of being. I’ve a lifetime of muscle memory reinforcing my beliefs that the true reality is beyond our physical perception. It will take conscious work to rid myself of such knowing. And the whispering voice of my inner child longingly puts out the challenge to prove me wrong. “Jessie, come show Mom you aren’t gone.”