Tiny Confessions

For those who worship many Gods

I am not a religious person and I do not believe in God the way the Christians describe it.

But I keep finding myself in this massive, cavernous cathedral, lighting a .50 cent candle, whispering my prayers into the smoke. I feel selfish asking for God’s attention at a time when the world is on the brink of collapse.

And yet, here I am.

Last Saturday, a new friend brought me here for the first time and I kept coming back. On Sunday, I listened to the organ breathe life and hope and sorrow into the air. On Monday and Tuesday I sat as tour groups filed in, seeking respite from Lisbon’s constant downpours. Everyone’s chins tilted up in surprise as they took in the magnitude of the space, so unassuming from the outside. On Wednesday, I sat in the back row during mass. There was a small choir and their hymns echoed through the vast, silent space. Haunting. Soothing. I couldn’t understand a word, but I knew that wasn’t the point.

On Thursday, an American woman frantically asked the clergymen if there was a priest who understood English. She wanted to make a confession, she said. She was wringing her hands and it seemed urgent.

No, there was no one.

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I wondered if a confession only counts if another person is there to hear it, to exonerate you. Or if we can make tiny confessions to ourselves and to the Earth throughout the day. Maybe the point is the simply the unburdening, not the absolution.

I wondered if it’s ever too late to confess, or apologize, or ask for forgiveness — if 33 years was too long, or not.

Sometimes, I’ll go to the park nearest to my house and I’ll wrap my arms around a low-hanging branch of the ancient ficus tree, whispering I’m sorry. For what, I don’t exactly know.

Still, I leave feeling lighter.

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Today, I went back to church. Not to pray, but to confess. Not to a priest, but to myself. To my body, who has put up with decades of my running away, of chronic avoidance, of rampant escapism that has often come at the cost of my wellness. To my body, who is working overtime under the intensity of an uncertain and exhausting fertility preservation process. My body, who has been gently asking me to slow down, only to be ignored repeatedly. She has been so patient, loving and strong, even as I took her for granted.

Instead of kneeling in prayer, I placed my hands over my womb and brought my awareness to that creation-space. I whispered:

I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I love you.
Thank you.

This is known as the Ho’oponopono mantra, an ancient Hawaiian practice of reconciliation. In life’s heaviest moments, these are the words that always find my lips. Whenever you need to, I urge you to reach for them too.

I continued repeating these words, having a conversation with my body that was long overdue. The tears ran in rivulets down my cheeks and the tides of my breath anchored me to a feeling of peace. My whispers became a hymn of their own.

I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I love you.
Thank you.

Over and over I confessed. Until finally — a response:

No, it’s never too late.

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I’m not a religious person, but I returned to A Igreja de São Domingo every single day this week. I can’t deny the calmness that settles over my bones, quiet as a first snow, when I step in the door.

But there was a moment today when I felt embarrassed, wondering if I’m doing this all wrong. I’m sitting in the house of one God, whispering the mantra of another, praying to the undeniable deity of my human body.

Does this still count? Even if I’ve got my Gods all mixed up?

The truth arrives, as quiet as a tiny confession:

Yes, it still counts.

And somehow, I know that they’re all the same thing.