Who’s Big Mama you ask? On alternate days I call her God, Him, Shakti/Shiva, the Universe, a particularly spectacular sunset, the sweet sounds of a baby, my inner sense, and a whole host of other names.
I know how to show up for Big Mama on my yoga mat. I breathe deep in my belly. I practice opening my heart. And there she is inside me, part of me… ahhhh… together again.
Church however is a different beast. After a five year hiatus, I’m finding myself in a bit of a pickle every week. There is nothing I dislike more than taking a shower and wearing anything but my cozy pjs before noon on a Sunday. Does God care if I show up in wrinkled clothes with sleep in my eyes? I don’t think so.
I intentionally get up a little early so as to relish in the NYT Style Section with a hot coffee before I run out the door. No shower, but I do at least brush my hair, throw a clip in, add mascara, and mow down the 25mph drivers on Monument to make it there before the ushers really glare at me. (Man, they start on time at this place!)
I don’t believe everything I’m supposed to recite and I don’t understand the meaning of half the readings. I don’t even feel that church is the best place for me to connect to that all powerful force of love in the world – I get self conscious praying around all those people!
However, I like the act of showing up. I like ritual. I like people who believe in something enough to devote their lives to it. I like the prayers for peace and social justice. And most of all, I like seeing what makes its way inside me.
Each week is a stretch. A stretch to not judge the people who talk during the sermon (don’t they know that’s the best part?!) A stretch to not feel alone in this big community of old and young. A stretch to ground my life and my work in deeper meaning.
I think, I hope, that’s what God cares about. Not my messy hair.
We don’t talk about God in the Women’s Circle but we do show up. We show up for each other and for ourselves and to discover what’s underneath.
