Confessions of a Solitary

Some people prefer to take the solitary spiritual path in life instead of the conventional religious path. Instead of attending church services, we walk on beaches, in mountains, or simply work in a garden in order to commune with the Creator. A need to avoid rituals is often a reason why. I find rituals of any kind worthy of a shudder. I understand the rituals are important. Going through the motions, though, makes me uncomfortable. I am not into touchy-feely stuff. I am not knocking religion, the Bible, or going to church. These things are important and desperately needed in today's sad world. I hope to explain what my relatives fail to understand. Many of us who prefer the solitary path often refuse to discuss our spiritual life with other people. Our spiritual life is deeply personal for us, our confessional. This unwillingness to share often mystifies devout churchgoers, many of who depend on the strong foundation of religion and ritual. For example, while my relatives break out the family bible around the Christmas tree, or sing hymns during the family reunion, I prefer to be alone in my beloved hills. Okay, partly because my relatives cannot sing worth a damn. The main reason, though, is that in the hills the only sound to be heard is the quiet pulse of the earth and, perhaps, a soothing whisper from the Creator. I hear Him speak in His many subtle forms, not my relatives or anyone else. At the old California Spanish mission near my home is a small plain room. The white stucco walls are dusty with age, and the clay floor is rutted. High in the wall to the right is a narrow window strewn with cobwebs. A huge old wooden bench sits opposite the doorway. Last week I sat on the bench and gazed out at the mission garden. The silence in the peaceful room brought to mind the priests who sat on the same bench over a hundred years before. A few of the priests now haunt the mission. My thoughts traveled two thousand years back in time to the sacrifice made by a courageous young carpenter. I thought of the world and its troubles, and I prayed the sacrifice was not made in vain. My faith in the world is somewhat cynical. I apologized for those who wielded the whips, hammer, and nails. Guilt stabbed my conscience. I suspect a lot of people feel the same stab of guilt. I then walked in the garden. A shaggy blue wild lilac perfumed the cool air. I commiserated with a bay tree (the poor thing has smut on its leaves), and nearly interrupted an outdoor wedding. I entered a clearing surrounded by blossoming pear trees. Wind swirled through the tree branches. A storm of white petals showered the earth. I whispered a heartfelt "Thank you" to the young carpenter. I will remain on my solitary path that is, in truth, shared by Another.