life, in snippets

I love my city at night. I love driving over the harbour, seeing the lights stretching away to all my horizons.

Thursday night, I went to acquire Reiver from the bus station. Due to a series of misadventures involving buses driving straight past the stop without collecting him, he arrived late.

Predictably, my car chose that night to break down. The battery has been quietly exhibiting signs of Tired for some time. I had not left my lights on, I had not done anything silly, and yet, the Sharkie would not start.

Have I mentioned that I LOVE my AA membership? (Automobile Association.) Returned to jumpstart me so I could get home, then sent a nice man with a van full of batteries to solve my woes Friday morning. All painless, except for the yearly bill.

Saturday, I inflicted Reiver on The Hoarde. The Hoarde are an unofficial group of 20 or 30 somethings, like minded, bent on various forms of geekery. Friends that have known each other for many years in some cases – I seem to have been inducted via my friendship with Debxena. Saturday’s plan involved folks bringing their comics collections together, sharing said collections with other folks, and generally reading substantial amounts of other people’s preciouses who they prefer (entirely understandably!) not to loan out. It was a good day. There were also waffles.

And it turns out Reiver knows a Hoarde member from university. It is a Small World. Said university is Reiver’s town, 150km from my hometown where most of the Hoarde are located.

Tobermory leaves for New Zealand in 31 days. Eeeps.

I realized today there is one thing I vaguely miss about religion.

A sense of belonging.

Thanks to uni and my odd work hours/variety of jobs, my free time was often in the middle of the day. I’d wander through town, and often as not, see one (or a few) of the older members of the congregation out having lunch.

Many of those had known me since my birth. And it was nice, being able to wander over to them in a cafe, say hello, have a coffee, and wander off on my way again. I did that quite often, in fact.

The combination of independence and quiet guidance was what appealed. Sometimes I even bought the coffee. We’d chat. I learned a lot of their histories in those quiet hours. And they came to know me better – saw me without the facade of church, me just being me.

Shortly after I left, the daughter of an older friend wrote a letter to me. In it, she told me that my mother was visibly upset by my leaving. That it was a shame I’d thrown my life away for my secular friends. That it was a shame I’d never see my father in heaven.

Mum wasn’t, of course, upset. She wants me to be happy. We’ve had some long conversations, as we both adjust to my moving out of her home. She knows I’m happy. I know she’s happy. As for the rest… it’s no-ones place to judge. If there is a heaven, the only one I’d trust to judge my right to be there is it’s god.

At the same time, several of those older ones came to Mum. Asked her to tell me that, despite their personal disappointment that I hadn’t chosen to keep their faith, they still loved me, and wanted to know how I was, that I was happy. That meant a lot to me.

I do see how hypocritical this is. After all, I left the faith precisely because I didn’t belong. I didn’t believe what those around me did. I wasn’t accepted for my choices. More often than not, I was actively chided for them.

And I’m not one to do things by halves. I couldn’t sacrifice my mental wellbeing to appease the conscience of others. I couldn’t hold to the trappings of something I no longer believed for the comfort it brought – familiarity, the chance to put myself in a box. Classification.

It’s not a sense of family. I have family, and their acceptance is unquestionable. Blood is blood, and I know my family are there when I need them. And it’s not that I don’t have friends. I do. Friends who accept me, who like me as I am. Friends who’ll volunteer to join me at 5am at the airport for moral support the day Tobermory arrives, who’ll cheerfully criticise my (lack of) fashion sense, who I’m sure I can call on if something goes wrong and I need them. I’m blessed to have them, and I wouldn’t be without them.

But that sense of belonging… I grew up surrounded by it, coddled by it. I never questioned it – I knew whatever happened, whatever went wrong, that (even grudgingly) there was always someone I could go to.

Independence comes with a price…