Not long ago I was asked in therapy to consider my purpose. I thought for a moment, careful to select my words.
My purpose, simply put, is threefold:
- To love and be loved
- To be present for others
- To accept help
I realize after years in therapy that I can’t discuss my recovery without touching on spiritual matters. Even without uttering “God” or “faith,” I’m restless for meaning in a mechanically operated, perpetually instant world.
Perhaps I’m a secret believer. A reformed cynic. Maybe identifying as agnostic spoke to my struggle with indecision and self-ambivalence. Maybe this mask no longer fits.
Has my writing taken a religious turn? Is my soul a desert wanderer? Or a longing to be nourished, the thirst for life itself?