The first time I can clearly remember it happening was at recess when I was eight. I gazed up at the impossible winter sky, a vast cerulean space castled with clouds. I looked at the people around me, fellow students at the Baptist private school known as Sky View Academy in Memphis, TN. I saw with painful clarity something I could not immediately put into words -- an affinity between the children, the sky, and the muddy ground beneath our feet. A physical throb of overwhelming love accompanied the insight, and I knew that God had shown me this, had given me a momentary glimpse of the way He saw His world.
Several days later, I did attempt to articulate the experience, in a poem I called 'The Cove of Eternity.' I can't recall anything more than the title; my memories of that period are capricious, and I have never been one to cherish physical reminders of the past. (For so many reasons.) Nevertheless, that day occupies a central place in the story of who I am.
I did not, in general, love or even like my fellow students. I did not get along with them. I did not know how. I was always insecure, always mistrustful, always, ultimately, alone. Looking back, the reason is pathetically obvious -- if I couldn't feel safe with my own parents, how could I ever feel safe among strangers? But at the time, as a child, in my innocence, I had a permanent sense of being wrong. I was an interloper. An outsider. I did not belong. The only trust I had, the only hope, the only chance for redemption came from God.
That day on the playground marked the first instance of something that has been repeated many times -- a visceral comprehension of transcendental truth. I use the word "repeated" cautiously, because each insight is unique, and the accumulation of knowledge has transformed the context of "truth." But the feeling, the recognition, the experience is the same.
All my life, I have struggled to understand myself. Even at eight, I knew that other people did not think of themselves in the third person. I felt a muddled (but deep) sense of guilt for the running narratives I made up about myself in my head: Unlike the other students, she is gazing at her teacher with a look of avid interest, and indeed she makes note of everything said; however, her thoughts are more occupied with a fantasy of running away to live with elves.
Mental illness was almost never discussed in our family. By the time I was in high school, I was vaguely aware that my mother got medication (which she rarely took) from a person she called her "squirrelly doctor." I only knew about that at all because my father would yell at her for not taking it. He had a principled contempt for most claims of mental illness, particularly depression and anxiety, but my mother's bipolar disorder was different. She had acute manic phases which affected her behavior in ways that caused trouble, e.g. spending too much money and having sex with too many people. Both my parents were substance abusers, but I think it really annoyed him that she preferred to take drugs that enhanced her manic times.
Religion was discussed in our family. Or at least, it had a pervasive presence. Looking back, I can see that my parents were both acutely aware of their problems -- the drugs, the fights, the general semi-shadiness of their lifestyle. But however wrong they were, they still knew what was right. And they made sure their children knew, too. They loved me and my brother. They wanted us to end up better. They sent us to church even when they didn't go themselves.
I was the "good" child. Quiet, studious, mostly obedient. I was good at hiding the depths of myself. I was good at learning things, seeing patterns, accumulating knowledge. People tend to fall into roles within groups, especially families. I was smart but impractical. (While I suspect my parents emphasized my "lack of common sense" because it helped their egos, I have to admit that I fell willingly into the role. Even now it's hard for me to believe I'm capable of certain ordinary things.) It was harder for my brother. He believed he wasn't as smart as me, but he wasn't exactly practical either. His gift manifested itself as... religion.
There is substantial evidence linking schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and creativity. Because of my brother, I know how lucky I am to:
1) be only on the edge of these things
2) have the ability to express them
My brother is schizophrenic. The world speaks to him far more urgently than it does to me. It communicates piercing spiritual truths at every turn. It is no wonder that he resorts to any drug he can find to drown that voice out.
Can you imagine hearing the voice of God, telling you to kill your own child, exactly as He told Abraham?
I can imagine it all too clearly.
Religion serves a variety of social purposes, and people have many reasons for participating in it. But the central lure is the offer of something that afflicts my brother all the time, whether he wants it to or not. At its core, religion is nothing more than sane people seeking to emulate madmen.
Which is why the best thing that ever happened to me was going to college -- and learning to think critically. And guess what? Although I no longer believe in God (in fact I find Abraham's deity reprehensible), I am still, at times, struck by wonder and delirious love for all humanity. The questions I learned to ask simply freed my imagination.
Several days later, I did attempt to articulate the experience, in a poem I called 'The Cove of Eternity.' I can't recall anything more than the title; my memories of that period are capricious, and I have never been one to cherish physical reminders of the past. (For so many reasons.) Nevertheless, that day occupies a central place in the story of who I am.
I did not, in general, love or even like my fellow students. I did not get along with them. I did not know how. I was always insecure, always mistrustful, always, ultimately, alone. Looking back, the reason is pathetically obvious -- if I couldn't feel safe with my own parents, how could I ever feel safe among strangers? But at the time, as a child, in my innocence, I had a permanent sense of being wrong. I was an interloper. An outsider. I did not belong. The only trust I had, the only hope, the only chance for redemption came from God.
That day on the playground marked the first instance of something that has been repeated many times -- a visceral comprehension of transcendental truth. I use the word "repeated" cautiously, because each insight is unique, and the accumulation of knowledge has transformed the context of "truth." But the feeling, the recognition, the experience is the same.
All my life, I have struggled to understand myself. Even at eight, I knew that other people did not think of themselves in the third person. I felt a muddled (but deep) sense of guilt for the running narratives I made up about myself in my head: Unlike the other students, she is gazing at her teacher with a look of avid interest, and indeed she makes note of everything said; however, her thoughts are more occupied with a fantasy of running away to live with elves.
Mental illness was almost never discussed in our family. By the time I was in high school, I was vaguely aware that my mother got medication (which she rarely took) from a person she called her "squirrelly doctor." I only knew about that at all because my father would yell at her for not taking it. He had a principled contempt for most claims of mental illness, particularly depression and anxiety, but my mother's bipolar disorder was different. She had acute manic phases which affected her behavior in ways that caused trouble, e.g. spending too much money and having sex with too many people. Both my parents were substance abusers, but I think it really annoyed him that she preferred to take drugs that enhanced her manic times.
Religion was discussed in our family. Or at least, it had a pervasive presence. Looking back, I can see that my parents were both acutely aware of their problems -- the drugs, the fights, the general semi-shadiness of their lifestyle. But however wrong they were, they still knew what was right. And they made sure their children knew, too. They loved me and my brother. They wanted us to end up better. They sent us to church even when they didn't go themselves.
I was the "good" child. Quiet, studious, mostly obedient. I was good at hiding the depths of myself. I was good at learning things, seeing patterns, accumulating knowledge. People tend to fall into roles within groups, especially families. I was smart but impractical. (While I suspect my parents emphasized my "lack of common sense" because it helped their egos, I have to admit that I fell willingly into the role. Even now it's hard for me to believe I'm capable of certain ordinary things.) It was harder for my brother. He believed he wasn't as smart as me, but he wasn't exactly practical either. His gift manifested itself as... religion.
There is substantial evidence linking schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and creativity. Because of my brother, I know how lucky I am to:
1) be only on the edge of these things
2) have the ability to express them
My brother is schizophrenic. The world speaks to him far more urgently than it does to me. It communicates piercing spiritual truths at every turn. It is no wonder that he resorts to any drug he can find to drown that voice out.
Can you imagine hearing the voice of God, telling you to kill your own child, exactly as He told Abraham?
I can imagine it all too clearly.
Religion serves a variety of social purposes, and people have many reasons for participating in it. But the central lure is the offer of something that afflicts my brother all the time, whether he wants it to or not. At its core, religion is nothing more than sane people seeking to emulate madmen.
Which is why the best thing that ever happened to me was going to college -- and learning to think critically. And guess what? Although I no longer believe in God (in fact I find Abraham's deity reprehensible), I am still, at times, struck by wonder and delirious love for all humanity. The questions I learned to ask simply freed my imagination.
