Sentimental religion and a fragment
These days my feelings toward Catholicism, my family religion, tend more toward sentimentalism. I remember the spring mornings together with my parents, budding cherry blossoms, ponds cracking with melting ice, kneeling in a stark wooden pew and watching my father’s hands held loosely clasped upon his wrists and thinking how casual his strength was–this familiarity, this warmth, was the essence of the tradition passed unto me. The other rituals, demonstrated by the priest, impact my reminiscences less, than the meaning of my father’s hands.
As I walked down the dark hallway my feet made dull empty thuds upon the floor, and I wondered at the wallpaper shredded and dangling. The window light showered my body moving through the narrow space and – imagine the gasps of when all the world changed. When the moment happened, when the light came and blew apart the Self on that hot summer afternoon in July; then all the Thought shredded and dangling and seen finally as paper thin. On that Now moment, on that day when people left their houses screaming. But not in terror. but with awesome delight and shock at their truths.