I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb. I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind. And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions. It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other. I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips. I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.
I also knew I had every right to be angry. And I was exceptionally upset. I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person. Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician! I create beauty! How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context? You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop! And I will not have it! He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?" I didn't offer him any answers. I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things. He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.
I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway. I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing." I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward. I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy. My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.
"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled. "What do I do? How do I live and find happiness?" I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve. I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife. Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.
And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling. Walk back to your car, a thought directed. Feel the rain falling. Go home. Clean up. And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me. I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power. I quit crying. I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face. I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long. I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.
I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day. "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed. Corey agreed, "No. No one should ever have to 'visit' like that. You don't need to be broken down."
Emily Dickinson wrote,
Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.
I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling. And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching. I let them come. I gather them in. They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart. I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.
