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I used to joke with friends about what I called my “checkered religious history” — I’ve been a Jehovah’s Witness, an Anglican, a wannabe Catholic, a Pagan, a Yogini and a Buddhist—the last three all at once (and still). I have always felt free to choose and/or drop beliefs without a great deal of angst. This shows either a lightness of spirit…or a lack of seriousness. Perhaps both.

On Hallowe’en I carve a pumpkin and give out candy. That same night, the Pagan feast of Samhain, I honour my ancestors beyond the veil. The next day, All Hallows, I honour my favourite saints. 

Saints you ask? Oh yes. You can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl. So I have saints too, just Pagan ones.

But what is a Pagan saint?

“Now it seemed like everyone suffered from some trauma; they just didn’t know it yet.” (1) 

Trauma awareness does indeed seem to be everywhere these days, spurring the use of trigger warnings and encouraging the adoption of various practices, from analysis to hallucinogenic journeys, meant to help uncover and heal it.

Do you remember learning your letters as a child? When my kids were little we had an alphabet puzzle, very simple, where the letter shapes fit easily into their spaces. Playing with them as an adult I fell back into a sensory reverie—I loved the feel of them. They were fun to manipulate as objects, and the satisfaction of clicking them into place remained with me, bringing me back to a space of childhood sensitivity to the physical world. 

 Way back in 1975, when I was 14, I’d already had two years of study with a Jehovah Witness friend. I was a bookish child, and her challenging of my beliefs led to my flirtation with the small colourful books full of Bible facts that the Witnesses used in their evangelizing. The lush illustrations and easy quizzes satisfied my curious, literal, pre-teen mind.

I snap to attention as I approach the customs booth at the border. As I roll down the window and proffer my passport, the officer asks if I’ve “ever been inside.” It’s a nerve-wracking moment. “Inside?” as in jail? Finally I realize I’m being asked to pull over for a search. I’m so freaked out that I run up over the curb and strip a tire.

Basically, I turn into a puddle of worry when faced with any kind of official authority. I have this vague but powerful feeling that I am about to be found out and apprehended for some unknown, unintentional or overlooked shortcoming. And I don’t think I’m alone. Perhaps that’s why the ancient Greek myth of Oedipus is still so powerful. 

I’m stuck. Living in the Toronto Covid “hot spot” is in no way as exciting as it sounds. I’m 24/7 with someone I love dearly, but who perversely insists on being the exact same person day after day. We walk the same streets day after day (masked) and go over the same topics, day after day.

In other areas, I’m plagued by a sense of uselessness and impatience. My group endeavours require slow-moving consensus, all over the eyeball-dessicating Zoom. Every now and then there’s some drama that drags even this virtual action to a standstill.

I want something to happen!