A Nature God
by Montserrat Andrée Carty
The holy water trickled on my head, wetting first my fine hair—barely visible, when it was still blond. A basin, a priest, a formal ceremony—for my maternal line.
*
“I believe in a Nature God,” my mother would say. She believed in the mountains, plants, rivers—that everything has a spiritual connection. I must have been seven or eight when I first asked her what religion we were. When she replied Nature God, I pictured a God I might find on one of our walks through the forest—among the slate rocks, the swaying trees, the little streams, sunlight dancing on the current, a carpet of stars.
*
I can still see with my child eyes la mona de pascua in pastelería windows each April. Or the porcelain figurine in the King’s Day cake that threatened the possibility of chipping a tooth; that might win me the golden paper crown. The parades on the streets of Barcelona on Saints Days. In the States, my family went to the Franciscan Monastery for Easters, and I collected tokens of spirituality: the Mallorcan cross on a delicate silver bracelet, a monk’s prayer printed on thin paper, a gold pendant of Our Lady of Montserrat—a gift passed down from my great-grandmother when I was born. At home, we were watched over by deities: the wise men would be found atop a fireplace on the days leading up to King’s Day, and, year-round, statues of Buddhas rested on shelves next to worn paperbacks by Alan Watts.
My mother encouraged me to decide for myself what felt right. And so, as a child and young adult, I tried on religions like shoes, singing chants at an ashram in upstate New York led by spiritual leaders from India, kneeling on wooden benches and delivering peace offerings to strangers through handshakes in pews, going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.
My mother encouraged me to decide for myself what felt right. And so, as a child and young adult, I tried on religions like shoes, singing chants at an ashram in upstate New York led by spiritual leaders from India, kneeling on wooden benches and delivering peace offerings to strangers through handshakes in pews, going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.
*
A Bindi or smear of ash on a forehead were symbols of devotion—something I yearned for. But I was not a student of the Koran or Torah, or any other sacred text. While I didn’t belong to any one religious group, I was drawn to those who did. I would go to hear my grandfather sing in the church choir. I would light a menorah at my friend’s home and join in the prayers before Shabbat dinners each Friday, prayers I held close to my heart but was shy to claim, not sure if I had a right to. When my friend went to college and I no longer had that built in ritual, I began to go each Sunday morning into a church on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston, where upon entering I’d tentatively make the cross—feathering my forehead, breastbone, shoulders—left then right. During the Holy Communion, not allowed to receive the sacramental bread on my tongue, I’d bring my knees close to the wooden pew, turn my shoulders out of the way—I’d make myself small so others could pass by. I must have kept my hands locked in prayer, pointed towards the altar, as I’d watch these strangers take the Eucharist into their mouths.
I was searching for a vessel to firmly root my spiritual longing, for a place like a church, a synagogue or monastery where I could feel the palpable energy that ran through generations—a collective seeking of the sacred. Still today, when an organ begins to play in church—as the first notes vibrate through the altar and through my body, I feel my eyes well up. The flame upon a menorah sparks a calm as does lighting a vela in the holy mountains of Montserrat—a vela among hundreds of candles already lit. This ensemble of quivering flames, the wind through the ancient mountains, wraps me in the company of spirits—a procession of pilgrims, the choir boys, my ancestors. And yet, without a theology to inherit, adopt or even relinquish, I have only ever been a tourist among religions, for so long hoping to find a spiritual home. Until I realized, perhaps this longing is not one to be settled.
I was searching for a vessel to firmly root my spiritual longing, for a place like a church, a synagogue or monastery where I could feel the palpable energy that ran through generations—a collective seeking of the sacred. Still today, when an organ begins to play in church—as the first notes vibrate through the altar and through my body, I feel my eyes well up. The flame upon a menorah sparks a calm as does lighting a vela in the holy mountains of Montserrat—a vela among hundreds of candles already lit. This ensemble of quivering flames, the wind through the ancient mountains, wraps me in the company of spirits—a procession of pilgrims, the choir boys, my ancestors. And yet, without a theology to inherit, adopt or even relinquish, I have only ever been a tourist among religions, for so long hoping to find a spiritual home. Until I realized, perhaps this longing is not one to be settled.
*
Today, this is how my body prays: fingers feathering the erect spine of a book or the curved one on a lover’s back, a sway in a concert hall, when a dog’s nose finds my open palm, kneeling at the edge of the shore where my hands might find a cluster of shells collecting them in my palms like a rosary. Leaving footprints in wet sand, taking in a breeze that hugs my body and ripples the waters, the brushing of grass on bare ankles, sun on shoulder blades. I have found spiritual nourishment within the lines of a poem, a crescendo of a song, a flurry of golden leaves carried by the wind—mimicking a dancer in pirouette. In the caverns of a dream that feel like sacred messages from somewhere beyond myself. A book happened upon by grace when I needed it most. The slant of light on a pile of wood, stirring waters giving way to the swell of a wave, the flash of a jeweled hummingbird, the silver sliver of the moon pinned to a night sky. An eye through a telescope tracing the craters of a full moon.
Not long ago, I found myself on a small pilgrimage through the woods in Northern California—nature’s beauty touching all my senses. When suddenly—the first, second, third drop of rain nudged the leaves to bend—to bow. I felt it wetting my hair—no longer blonde—ripened by time. Droplets brushed my forehead, tickled my nose, down my cheeks, feeling something like a blessing.
Not long ago, I found myself on a small pilgrimage through the woods in Northern California—nature’s beauty touching all my senses. When suddenly—the first, second, third drop of rain nudged the leaves to bend—to bow. I felt it wetting my hair—no longer blonde—ripened by time. Droplets brushed my forehead, tickled my nose, down my cheeks, feeling something like a blessing.