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? A desert wanderer, am I longing to be nourished by the thirst for life itself?