When I was in my twenties, I was married to a pagan man.  Now, before some of you fling up your hands in horror, let me say there are worse things in the world.  His religious beliefs were not necessarily the cause of the parting of our ways.

I had grown up in a Baptist household.  I had heard all the horror stories of the deacon running off with the preacher’s wife and the collection plate; I had seen my great-aunts saying one thing, living another.  I had seen plenty of Sunday morning repentance, followed right up with week-day sinning. I had even seen the people who struggled to walk-the-walk as well as talk-the-talk.

I was ready for a change.  “Harm none, then do what ye will” seemed a credo I could embrace.  What I learned in the subsequent ten years is that catch phrases can be open to all kinds of interpretation.  While for me, the concept that I was and am responsible for all my actions; that it is my job to decide what is good and right and then to live up to it, was not necessarily the concept held by others.  In some instances, it seemed as if they were living down to it.

Worse yet, it seemed as if those who practiced openly had no discretion, no sense of the appropriate.  It was necessary to have some hard talks with friends who wanted to show up at my work-place and discuss matters best left for a more private venue.

When I began my Master’s classes for Library Science, one of the first things they told us was “Librarians do not have religion, politics or personal opinions.” I could see the sense of that; a librarian’s job is to find information, not to judge its use.

But then, along came 9/11, the Patriot Act, and suddenly disseminating information was right smack in the middle of politics.  Suddenly, librarians were in the position of needing to know who requested certain types of sensitive information.  Would it become a crime to supply library patrons with a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook?  Had our civic duty suddenly expanded beyond keeping adult predators out of the children’s department?  Many libraries responded by ceasing to keep records of patron check-outs beyond the day of a book’s return.  It is hard to subpoena records that do not exist.

When I was married to my third (and last) husband, I once again re-explored Christianity.  I re-learned what I had not been willing to concede in my teens, twenties, and well into my thirties:  Most people are struggling to do the right thing.  They want their families to be safe, well-fed and happy.  They want to be right in the eyes of God.  They want to be acceptable in the eyes of the world.  But most of all, they want their little creature comforts, and they want not to feel guilty for them. In defending their space, people will lash out; they will rationalize; they will say that it is “God’s will” when they cross their fellow man.  Are they wrong?  Not entirely.  We are built to defend family and tribe.

As I listen to Unofre Pili’s lovely collection of healing songs, I ponder the questions I began to ask around the age of 10.  Where do we come from?  Who made us?  Who made the world?  Why do people do the things they do? When will I know the answers? How can I know I’m doing the right thing?

Some of those questions I have left for those with more time and resources.  Let the scientists and theologians battle out the origins of the world and the human race.  I will try to forgive the people (including myself) for the silly things we do;and pray, that with time, we may all learn to do better.  I have learned that, even as the infant does not recall its birth and none have returned from death to explain that mystery, some questions simply do not have answers–merely speculation. But one thing I have learned:  whether we worship God or Goddess; whether we follow Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha or some other Teacher, we are the hands that do the work in the world.  We are the ones who speak, we are the ones who litter or pick up the litter; we are the ones who plant or weed; we are the ones who nurture life or kill. 

I have never seen a human corpse.  My mother requested that I not view her body, that I remember her as she was–a living, vital woman who loved her family and struggled all her life to care for her mother, her daughter, her brother, even her sister (who is a very capable lady in her own right), and her neices and nephews.  I have the great good fortune not to live in a war zone; not even a city ghetto.  I grew up in a farming community, and after a brief sojourne in the wide world, realized that rural communities suit me best.

I have seen death.  I have had loved pets who passed on, I have killed farm animals for food.  I know where the meat in the store packages comes from.  Once it was vital and living.  Eating meat is the choice I make for personal health because my metabolism does not happily accept a vegan regime.  I try to pay my dues as part of the food-chain in other ways.

I take in stray animals; I learned the hard way that taking in stray humans is risky business.  Some would say the resources I squander on my critters would be better spent on the homeless or on needy children.  Maybe so.  I love my furred friends; I wish I had more time and more resources to spend on them.  Their simple needs reflect my own.  I wonder, sometimes, if they could speak human, would they have stories and culture?  I will guarantee that they communicate; that they have loves and hates, that they make friends and enemies.  Do they speculate on their origins?  Do they wonder where they go when they die?  I know they mourn.

So where does that leave me?  “The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind…”.  I tend my corner of the world as best I may.  I teach, I read, I write, I make pictures.  Once in a while, I make some music.  I feed my animals, keep roof over my head and that of my tenant/room mate/friend.  I pay my bills, I try to be considerate of my neighbors.  Will all this win me some corner in a heaven after my death?  Honestly, I haven’t a clue.  I know it makes me feel better about myself, and for now, that will have to be enough.