Crisis of Faith

I.

It is 8:00 a.m. Sunday in St. John Vianney church. My sister is on one side of me squirming around and tapping her feet on the kneelers. My brother, on the other side, is making silly faces at me. I try to abstain from uncontrollably giggling during mass.  As an eight year old, sitting motionless in a church pew for hours is not exactly my idea of a pleasurable activity.

I peek through my peripherals and attempt to slip a piece of Bubble Yum in my mouth without anyone noticing.  To my astonishment nobody reacts, and I begin to follow the queue to receive communion. As Father Daly places the “body of Christ” in my open palm, my routine falls into action. I slide it above my tongue with my thumb and index finger while my other fingers grip the chewing gum simultaneously. Immediately after swallowing, I slip the gum back in my mouth to disguise the unpleasant taste. The flavor of communion wafers always makes me want to gag, but since it is a ritual I am expected to partake in, I have developed a sneaky routine to cover it.

Growing up, this was how I spent every Sunday: wake up, dress in the appropriate attire, attend mass, and then devote the next few hours to sitting in a classroom for CCD. I knew that this was expected of me, so I never questioned it. Regrettably, I never truly understood it either. As a child, I thought that if I made an appearance in church, received communion, and said “Our Father,” and “Hail Mary,” every night that God was going to love me and accept my soul into Heaven. I did not have any kind of relationship with God; I just precisely followed the rules displayed in front of me.

At night I contemplated the meaning of God, religion, faith, and the Catholic Church.  I could never make any sense of it and I was fearful to ask anyone for guidance. I knew that I was expected to understand, so I would say my prayers and fall asleep wonderstruck.

II.

I am 15 years old and it is the evening before Christmas day. As we head down the driveway, I am forced to bolt back inside to make some outfit adjustments. A run in my tights is simply distasteful for the Catholic Church. At this point my attitude is particularly bitter. I feel unaccepted by the church and restrained from my personal independence.

I tap my foot violently on the ground as I impatiently wait for mass to end. Pretending to listen has become an art form. My wide, passionate eyes always make it very believable that I am engrossed. Instead, I am admiring the architecture of the church, the stained glass, the candles, and the variety of faces I can see from where I am sitting – many that are familiar. When I accidently make eye-contact with them I abruptly turn my head so they don’t realize my estrangement from the atmosphere. I know that these walls surrounding me are holy, but instead I feel empty.

After entering high school my Sunday routine gradually shifted from sitting through hours of Catholic mass and CCD to attending dance practice or occasionally sleeping in until early afternoon. I was still obligated to be present at church on holidays and special occasions, which caused my alienation from my so-called faith to escalate. I felt like an intruder, wasting a seat in a place I did not belong.

By the time I was mid-way through high school my beliefs had intensified into a whirlwind of spiritual perplexity. Many of my friends were amused that I still had any faith in God left. Rather than harmoniously discussing our ideas with each other, they would unite and enforce their doubts and nihilism upon me. The more insistent they became, the more I succumbed to their stance on what was truth and what was fiction.  I mustered the courage and told my mom that I did not wish to attend church any longer because it seemed meaningless. The worry in her eyes reflected her bewilderment and disappointment. I was uncertain of how else to explain to her that I still felt God was out there for me somewhere, I just couldn’t seem to uncover the definite path.

III.      

I am exploring the infinite playground of social network sites before I embark on my day. As my eyes scan the vast array of negative posts from those in my circle, I sigh despondently. I inescapably find myself surrounded by cynical, miserable, and doubtful individuals – particularly via interweb. Conforming to their malevolent philosophy appears safe and effortless; however, I am not interested.  My chest tightens in an acute effort to catch my breath, but I allow my mind to escape the pessimistic abyss and I proceed with my day.

I am 22 years old and a concept once so foreign to me is unveiled through a cloudless, incandescent sky. This concept is faith. Unequivocal, invigorating, all-encompassing faith. I observe the faithless spirits of those I care for and feel a paralyzing sense of pity and heartache. The infinite, daunting forest I am staggering my way through finally exposes a glimpse of luminescence. My soul recognizes life beyond the body it presently inhabits and I inhale a deep abiding serenity within.

Doubt is mysteriously the foundation of faith. I find that unwavering faith in God in sight of anguish is the greatest way to defeat the ambiguity. Belief is a peculiar thing; I am incessantly discovering what I genuinely believe in through a challenging and pressuring journey of what I do not. It is my faith in God that holds me during heartbreaks and allows me to admire and appreciate the immeasurable blessings surrounding me. I embrace an all-encompassing, nonjudgmental, 24/7 therapist, teacher, and friend who listens to my heart, soul, and spirit and never rejects me. With God, I am always able to embrace my authentic self.

To my discovery, distance from the love and compassion of God results in a cynical and bitter lifestyle that I have no interest in. God represents freedom and enlightenment as opposed to the repression and restraint I felt throughout my childhood.  My faith in religious institutions continues to reside in a tornado of puzzlement. However, I do not believe that organized religion is the only way to build a relationship with God. I am abandoning my acquiescence and blind devotion to the Catholic Church, along with the pressures and opinions of my secular friends. After years of vigorously seeking a lucid meaning, I am carving my own spiritual trail to reach the zealous love and comforting support offered through enduring faith.  The person I was a few years ago only hazily resembles the person who currently inhabits me. Reaching this spiritual frontier was not, is not, and will not be a simple endeavor. Allowing myself to acknowledge and appreciate the love, strength, and wisdom that God provides is a choice I must continue to make each and every day. The core of who I am meant to be reflects this decision, and I choose faith.

Map to Paradise

The best part of me is hidden. You cannot see it; I cannot see it. But, I can feel it. When I close my eyes, I am exhaustively overcome by it.

Ever since I can remember I have had an insatiable desire to genuinely capture every moment, every experience, and every sensation. I have always found a way to perceive the most tragic and forgotten moments in the most exquisite ways. This feeling was never forced, nor was it cognitively identifiable. I kept a diary from the moment I began kindergarten. Yet, the only days I seemed to extensively write about were the ones I felt disheartened or enraged. Those were the moments that I felt were indispensable to my life; those were the moments I wanted to commit to memory. Pouring my heart out onto paper allowed me to analyze the situations and alter my responses to them. It was then that I realized that writing helps you decide who you are. Writing teaches you how to live and how to be vulnerable. It teaches you how to take conventional experiences and turn them into works of art.

As a child, I would hear a single word or phrase and it would replay in my mind tirelessly like a song. I would dwell on words or sentences I found stimulating or radiant and attempt to insert them into my daily vocabulary. I found the assembling of words to be fascinating; therefore, reading came almost as a reflex to me at a young age. One of my lasting memories involves me reading stories to my kindergarten class. In elementary school, excitement would overcome me when we would learn our vocabulary lists for the week. To my astonishment, everyone else moaned and groaned at the thought of memorizing these words, so I tried to keep my enthusiasm discreet. I would pick out my favorite word from the class list and ask my friends which one was their favorite.  I quickly discovered that the other kids did not usually choose a favorite unless I forced it out of them.  As the years passed and I frequently changed my ideal profession from a dancer, to a marine biologist, to a psychologist, somehow I always integrated that I aspired to write a novel. As the career path I envisioned incessantly changed, that remained constant.

Fast forward to present day. As I sit on campus between classes I observe those around me. I study their habits, their words, and their nonverbal communication as they abruptly pass by.  I wish to capture every detail in my mind so I can record it on paper. Just as I did when I was in kindergarten, I keep a journal that travels with me at all times, for unexpected ideas or experiences that I must embrace.

It has been a stimulating journey to reach this peak of realization. I have changed my mind innumerable times over my future career choice. I began college as a psychology major, switched to business communication with a focus in marketing, then to journalism, followed by advertising. Throughout the metamorphosis I had failed to acknowledge what I am sincerely passionate about. What I have discovered on this journey is that your passion, your essence, it will find you. You cannot lie to yourself. Once you uncover it, it demands to be let forth.

Writing is my passion, my craft. Though I am not its finest craftsman, I feel an overwhelming acceptance from the universe when I admit this to myself. I find words mesmerizing and I want to arrange them in eloquent segments and share the products with everyone. Exposing this hidden passion can be a grueling adventure, but the extraordinary feeling returned is an escape to paradise.

The best part of me is hidden and when I close my eyes, I am exhaustively overcome by it.

Lana Del Rey “Born To Die” Album Review

If you cross collaborate the ideas of a naïve girl, internally wounded from her past love experiences and a sexual prowess that thrives off fornication, liquor and hard cash you get Lana Del Rey’s label debut album “Born to Die” (Interscope).  After a self shot music video went viral for her song “Video Games,” her debut album was anxiously awaited by an evolving and curious fan base. Though there are a few tracks that lack the original depth and precision of melody and form of “Video Games,” the majority of “Born to Die,” is exquisitely poignant and magical.

What makes “Born to Die,” so breathtaking is Del Rey’s haunting voice and the ability for it to introduce you to a dream world. This album serves as a film noir score written by the enigmatic femme fatale. The album opens with the title track, “Born to Die,” which sets the mysterious and cinematic tone for the tracks to follow. The next tracks, “Off to the Races,” and “Blue Jeans,” both embody Del Rey’s “gangster Nancy Sinatra” vibe. She tells dark, twisted stories with her lyrics of dangerous love narrated by a doe eyed coquette. “Video Games,” the song that launched LDR’s career, has a mystifying, fairy tale feel with a sensational piano melody to accompany her peaceful vocals.

The album jumps to “Diet Mountain Dew,” which is an upbeat hip hop inspired track that feels much more lighthearted and blissful after the heaviness prior. “National Anthem,” a personal favorite, is the albums climax. The track is ambitious and intelligent with primary themes of diamonds of drugs. “Dark Paradise,” “Carmen,” and “Without You,” are each lovely with eerie, haunting vocals and exquisite melodies. “Radio” is a breath of fresh air in a somewhat twisted dream, with lyrics of “Now my life is sweet like cinnamon.” A smoky, vintage club in the 50s with a hopeless starlet pouring her heart out is the picture “Million Dollar Man,” paints as it makes its impression. It is brilliantly composed, bringing the listener to a sense of nostalgia by the close. “Summertime Sadness,” is effervescent and light, though the title and some of the lyrics present it otherwise, such as, “I think I’ll miss you forever, like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky.”

“This is What Makes Us Girls,” is a story of a girl looking melancholically back on youthful indulgence. It’s heavy hearted and luminous, though it slightly straddles the edge of becoming corny. “Lolita,” embraces the main themes of “Born to Die,” and has the same trip-hop feel as “Diet Mountain Dew,” and is one of the more delightful and upbeat tracks of the album. “Born to Die,” closes with “Lucky Ones,” a thrilling example of breathless ecstasy. LDR’s vocals are pleasant and easy on the ears and the lyrics make it difficult not to crack a smile.

Lana Del Rey explicates the meaning of truth. Her painfully honest outlook on love and life are apparent in her voice and lyrical themes in “Born to Die.”  The ability for Del Rey to glide from rich, low-toned hauteur to elevated bliss makes the delivery of her debut album one to converse about. It is one of the most distinctive albums of 2012; bringing a new meaning to the pop music scene. Her talent is undoubtedly evident in each song on her debut, and it will be intriguing to witness where she will go next.

The album is not perfect; not every track is to die for, some stand out more than others. However, the majority of the songs are haunting, leaving you breathless and craving more. “Born to Die,” is a cinematic soundtrack, classic and dreamy with an old school vibe. It is filled with lyrical narratives concerning rebellious teenage vagabonds, beauty queens, broken hearts, exotic escapades, youthful blues, drugs, booze, and hopeless romance. Lana Del Rey embodies the extraordinary power that a pop song can encompass. Her soulful voice on “Born to Die,” is perfect to pair with a quiet autumn day and a glass of vintage bourbon.

My Ugly Mouth.

The problem with loving you is only having two arms to hold you with, two eyes to admire every enticing detail and two hands to intertwine with yours.

Two would be an adequate number if I was referring to mouths, in which my only one is so worthless and inferior.

Please forgive my incompetence and imperfections for I only aim to please you. My words are scarce and my sentences incomprehensible, but I would offer you the entire alphabet if it was mine to lend.