An Island Like Ísland
Three days to Easter in Reyka, I was trying something, an experiment of sorts—another call out to the heavens. Maybe I should have called out to myself, but was I even listening? I was on the outs of a Gothic church on Reyka’s west end, standing tall on the hill across from the hospital. I had arrived mid-funeral service and sat on the bench outside smoking a cigarette, waiting for the procession to pass and the reading of final rights. The hairs on my arms stood on end, trying to capture whatever heat may exist in the air of young Spring. After the tears of the bereft were dried and condolences extended, I stood at the gates and teetered. Coming to terms with the stress cracks in the concrete, I passed through the narrow doors and through a second set until landing in the cathedral. Where was I again? Searching for spirituality, I suppose. Why here? As good a place as any. I sat in the pew and thought about god. I thought about religion and spirituality and the differences between the two. Beyond the obvious, faith is required, and faith in the ether is about all I can muster. I think other people might be god. I can’t control them, and their choices affect my life, changing the course against my will and mine affecting them the same way. I think god might be the sun or maybe the earth or maybe the thing that gave us a soul. Because I do believe in souls.
Taking up only a small space in the back, the last pew in the long line of seating. I unlatched my rosary and held it in one hand, letting the chain tangle in my fingers. I unfurled the small pamphlet of rosary prayers that Vincent’s mother gave me before I left the Valley. I was alone in a church, just the big guy and me, but there was a nag of separation, a natural pull at my coat sleeve like how a child tugs at your pockets when needing attention—a pull from the concentration. In my mind, I knew I did not believe, and yet there I found myself trying ever so slightly to invite it in. After some time spent practicing, I wondered what I was doing. What was this attempt? A plea through a sky overcasted, the characters all set. This play, the charade, the beginning of something quoted, aiming at a date and a purpose for the rosary around my neck.
The voice in your head is you, and maybe that’s god, or maybe god is all the ants in an ant hill, and all these cathedrals and scripture are for naught; the answers aren’t in the book but rather in the ant hill, who would have thought? I wandered stationary, soundless, and mum. Underneath my breath, I was reciting lines and chasing a spirit as my desire for a drink built exponentially. I felt the sun blast through the stained glass, shooting rays through the elevated indentations outlining a saint who may have never existed.
Maybe I had become an island like ísland, and I needed something else like I had not the courage to do it on my own anymore. I was draining like the handles from Duty-Free. I found then that god isn’t in a church, book, or tradition but in other people. And I think that’s the thing: life is meaningless without all these complications. The confusion might be the point. The peppering of conflict, both internal and external, desiring answers, but maybe the questions matter more. The truth is, I won’t ever get to the bottom of god and spirituality, but I can ask, even if nothing answers back.
I clasped the rosary around my neck and gathered my things. I lifted a schedule from the mantle by the doors, folding it in half and slipping it into my coat pocket. It was early Spring in Reyka, and I fell blind behind my sunglasses. Hiding from the sun, I’d never felt it so piercing, so cutting. It sits in the sky and slices through the clouds, and I could swear it cut right through me. My feet took me to the Laundromat and ordered me a double along with a club sandwich. It was a Friday. It was early afternoon. It was…
