I’ve never been a god person, but recovery has a way of prying up one corner of the brain and wiggling its way in via cliches. First it was coffee and cigarettes. Then it was sugar and running. Now I’m trying on god like a pair of new shoes I’m not at all sure I need.
Except they don’t feel new, really. The god I know feels inviting and comfortable and not vengeful or prissy. If he were a person, he’d eat hot dogs.
Last night I dreamt I was jogging along a beach, but found I’d gone further than I’d intended. I saw footprints of others who’d kept going and saw paradise in the distance, but worried it was too dangerous. Because this was my dream, afterall, I thought “and anyway, I forgot my camera…I’ll come back another time”.
In real life, this rock tumbled in like cool rocks occasionally do. The first time I held it in my hand, I saw two footprints. One is shorter and rounder while the other is longer and stronger. Together they make a solid pair.
The rock is a smooth talisman I can stroke in my palm, the size of a small egg. I worry the roughness of my fingers will scratch it, but every time I hold it up to the light, I see it’s stronger than I realized.