I. The temple in the old house

There is a skylight and a low-hanging ceiling, and you might hit your head while you try to catch a glimpse of the heaven above. The room’s only large enough to walk around in because you’re a child; in a few years, you’ll return and will be condemned to the warm carpet. There’s an internal balcony…what are those called? And you gaze through the cracks in the railing down onto your living room and dream about how it would feel to fall from such a height—to fly or float down like a feather before landing gracefully in front of the clock as it chimes noon. But even in the blind faith of youth, you still know that you cannot fly. And so you sit in front of the temple set, and your grandmother has you repeat lines to a prayer you can hardly remember now. The only part that still exists in your brain is asking God to keep you happy and healthy, week after week, for the entirety of your time spent in that old house. 

II. The Notre Dame

Years later, you are in Paris. And the ceilings are so high, so very different from the old house. The light floods in through the stained glass windows, and you’re sure it’s beautiful. But you are so, so exhausted. Merely walking through the posts and the candles and the sky beams has you out of breath – you’re not sure why. Looking back, you fail to truly remember anything further about the experience than your profound misery. And that you don’t really have the energy to contemplate what exists in that beautiful light from the sky; all you really want to do is rest. 

III: The Mandir

The next time, you’re not even sure how to approach it. What even is it? You don’t know. You have no answers. Your family drags you to a large building that you’ve been to so many times before, and you take your shoes off inside and feel the plush flooring beneath your feet. There’s a slight yellowish glow to the light, but it still feels too akin to the bright, fluorescent overhead found in hospitals. The room is giant, almost too big for you to feel at ease. There are Gods and deities scattered along the walls, and for a few of them, you look and a name appears in your mind; a name you didn’t even think you’d have vaulted in your memory. None of it matters; being here, it does nothing. You’re only here because it appeases your family. You crouch in front of the God in the middle of the room, then you fully get on the floor. And all you ask in your head is for one thing: for God to allow your grandfather to be with your grandmother again. Because it’s been almost two decades since she died and you know that before he followed suit exactly one year ago today, he spent every moment missing her. 

IV: The Greek Monastery

There are so many rooms and maybe you find a little joy in exploring each of them. You go into one of the smaller ones, dimly lit, and there are boxes upon boxes of human bones. Huh. It’s kind of fascinating. Your dad and brother are terrified by the quiet eeriness, but it brings you a strange sense of peace, like the world is quiet and only your past, present, and future exists. You walk into another room and there are a few chairs and yellow drapes and a circle of monks and they’re chanting in what you assume is Greek? And you and your brother and your dad are the only other people in the room and they are itching to leave. And you get the feeling that maybe you shouldn’t be there, but you cannot bring yourself to go. So you sit on the boxy, wooden chair, and close your eyes and take it all in. You don’t think about God, focusing only on the voices and the pulsations of the air. 

V: The Belgian Nunnery

Finally, the crux of a world alone. One room; slightly below surface level but not quite underground, as there are still windows high along the wall that allow for the only form of light. Well, there are candles too, you suppose. You slide a euro into a slit and then light one of them, and you sit in one of the rows and stare at the small altar and shrine at the front of the room. Silence. There is no one and nothing around and you feel the history beneath your feet and you somehow know that everything will always be alright. And you reflect on what brought you here and why you are who you are and you realize that countless have lived just as you have, and they’ve walked across this very room and lit these very candles and sat in these very rows. And in the forest outside of this room, you are one of the trees.

–

So where does any of this leave me? I think I’m like my dad: “Atheist unless he wants something” (better known as agnostic, but leaning towards the idea that there is no God, and only hoping that there is when things get really bad and he needs an out). But then why the hell am I still capitalizing God, and how have I learned to find such a serenity in places of worship, knowing God has not done anything for me? 

Well, after almost two decades of contemplation, I think that I do believe in a higher power; just not a traditional one. The power that shapes me, and the people around me, and even the entire world is memories. We have nothing except what we have lived, and each of these encounters with different churches or temples or monasteries has allowed me a space to be at peace with all of these makings that define me. And after everything, my past will never change. And I will continue to be the person I am.