Finding My Religion

I am giving up chocolate for lent.

This is an odd statement for me to write, for several reasons. The most striking one being that I don’t attend church, other than The Church Of The E Street. I am not Catholic, Baptist, Jewish or Born Again. I don’t practice Buddhism or Hinduism or even Sikhism. I was raised religiously unaware.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have willingly been inside a place of worship for anything other than wedding related events.

My first church visit that I can recall was in 1978, when my mother dragged my brother and sisters and me to church on Easter Sunday. There was no explanation that I can remember. We woke up that morning, and, instead of eating our way into a chocolate-bunny induced sugar coma, my mother announced that we were going to church. “To where ?!?” we asked, as we piled into the Oldsmobile.

I walked into our small town Methodist church, and was, literally and figuratively, lost. In a moment of surreal recognition, I noticed a classmate a few pews over from us. I wanted to both hide beneath the bench in embarrassment and wave at her in relief. Before I could decide whether to be seen or not be seen, she walked over to me and, with her red ponytail swinging behind her, said, “Chrissy, what are you doing here?”.

I shook my head and shrugged. What else could I do? Because the truth was, I had no idea what I was doing there. In my seven year old mind, Easter meant pretty hats and jelly beans and plastic egg hunts. It did not mean steeples and hard benches and a half naked man on a cross, for goodness sake.

Not surprisingly, we didn’t learn much that day at church. I think it takes more than one morning of forced religion before any spiritual enlightenment shows up on your doorstep.

I had another childhood friend, whose family was deeply religious. Their beliefs were at the very core of who they were. It defined them in a way I couldn’t understand. My friend and I were at the age when sleepovers were the pre-teen thing to do, and so, she often invited me to sleep over at her house on Saturday nights. This meant, on Sunday mornings, I would have no choice but to climb into their family sized van with the rest of her 4 siblings and go with them to their church. I can’t say I learned much there, either, other than where to find the best plate of cookies after the Sunday school lessons. To this day, I’m still unsure whether the Saturday night sleepovers were an attempt by her family to save my heathen soul.

Growing up in a town of mostly catholics, I got used to my friends’ parents asking me, "So what are you?". And, me answering, “Nothing. I’m nothing.”

I learned much of what I know about religion, which, admittedly, is not much, through a college minor in Art History. I had a bigger learning curve than most of my classmates, who already had a solid base of religious knowledge and were not raising their hands asking things like, “Mary who?” and “What are the Magi and who were they adoring?”.

I had some extra studying to do. But I came away with some basic biblical history.

Several years later, I met my husband, who was brought up in a religious household, and, as a child, dutifully attended the Episcopalian church every Sunday morning, whether he wanted to or not. In college, he chose a not-so-practical major of Religion and Philosophy, and spent several months in India where he practiced yoga, and explored bongo drums and other mind-altering experiences. He was trying to figure it all out, and came away, I think, accepting that he had created more questions than he had answers.

But, nonetheless, he took the journey and he asked the questions.

I have not. And now, at the age of 38, I have some questions.

A look at the current stack of books on my night table is like peaking into the thoughts rattling around my head these days. Books with titles like Devotion, Committed and Alice Hoffman's, The Third Angel. I'm going broke as I actually pay attention to and, subsequently, purchase Amazon's personal recommendations. Another 40-something woman's memoir about personal discovery? I'll take it!

I’m scouring all of these beautiful books searching for an answer. An answer to what, I’m not sure, other than, “what does it all mean, exactly?”

I'm coming up empty, folks.

Since the books haven’t revealed anything monumental (yet), and I have difficulty subscribing to any specific organized religion, I am biding my time by practicing more yoga. Can yoga be a religion? It is a spiritual practice, no doubt. Baron Baptiste tells me that if I open up my hips, magic will happen. So far, even in pigeon pose, no magic has been found.

Maybe the pursuit of spiritual magic calls for more drastic measures than a 90 minute yoga class. Next month, I will be retreating and rejuvenating at a secluded yoga retreat in Western Massachusetts. Could a few days of yoga, meditation and drum circles bring me the magic that Baron Baptiste promises? Spiritual discovery? Answers?

Probably not.

And most likely, depriving my body of chocolate as a way of practicing self sacrifice will not lead to profound enlightenment, either.

But at least I’ll lose a few pounds in the next 40 days. Lighter might be better in the quest for the meaning of life, after all.



*to the 3 people in real life who read this: not to worry; once spring, and then summer, arrives, I will stop all this existential contemplation and return to basking in the glory of the SUN and sipping umbrella cocktails again. Damn, these winters.