My temper blows if anyone tries to 'convert' or 'save' me.



Nothing makes me angrier faster than someone else butting into

my spiritual life.

Oh, I believe in the Creator. God, the Goddess, Allah,

Jehovah-the Creator has a thousand names. I use 'the Creator'

because the title covers all the bases and is almost poetic.

I'm not knocking religion or going to church. These things

are important and desperately needed in today's sad world.

But some of us prefer to take the solitary path.

My solitary behavior has made me a mystery to my own family.

While they break out the bible around the Christmas tree I prefer

to be alone in my hills.

I have told my family I avoid their gatherings because I sense

their tangled emotions and even snatch a few of their thoughts

out of the air.

You should have seen their nervous, guilt-ridden expressions after

they found out I've been unintentionally eavesdropping.

Being the psychic in a large family is stressful, to say the least,

but can also provoke peals of cackling laughter. From me, that is.

But, as a result, my less pleasant relatives scoff at my reason

and accuse me of making excuses to get out of being with the family

or 'sharing'(another shudder). The other family members don't pay

any mind and hope I'm even crazier than they first suspected.

And so my temper steams and the stress levels rise.

The simple reason why my spiritual life is a taboo subject is because

I prefer to keep my spiritual life between the Creator and me.

Go straight to the source, I say. Or Source in this case.

I have told my relatives my reason. The more uptight members openly

resent my unwillingness to include the rest of the family in the

spiritual side of my life.

You can choose your friends. You can't choose your relatives. I

know you're nodding in agreement. Maybe laughing a little while you

think of your own family? Hmmm?

At the old California Spanish mission near my home is a small plain

room. The room consists of white stucco walls dusty with age, a

rutted clay floor, and a huge old wooden bench. High in the wall to

the right is a small window. The bench sits opposite the doorway,

which looks out onto the mission garden.

During Easter I go to this room alone and sit on the bench. I listen

to the silence in this peaceful room while thinking of a

sacrifice made by a courageous man long ago. I never fail to cry.

I think of the world and its troubles, and I pray the sacrifice

wasn't made in vain. I apologize for those who wielded the whips,

hammer, and nails. One can't help but feel guilty.

I then leave the room to walk in the peaceful beauty of the mission

garden. While doing so I thank the man for his sacrifice. Not a

lengthy ritualistic speech or prayer. Merely a heartfelt,

"Thank you" from deep within me.

Where is the mystery in simply saying, "Thank you'?