A space for me to express, and work with, my spirituality

Diversity and Religion

I’ve been following this tumblr: which talks about the need for more diverse characters in fiction writing. (The problem being that a lot of publishers and sellers do not want content that they do not believe will sell. Which is messed up in so many ways and you should check out that tumblr.)

And as I scrolled through, I saw one post in particular. The image in this reads: “We need diverse books because I’m black, queer, fat and a bunch of other marginalized and oppressed identities. And I want to be the hero and ride a fucking dragon in books too.”

This quote hit me. Because it is that sentiment, and the absence of my identities (some of which are latina, overweight, queer, and with poor medical health) that I, for a long long time, thought the love I felt from my deity was false. Made up in my mind entirely. Because why would something so divine love something like me? Underrepresentation almost took my religion away from me.

Her strength, her devotion, and her love all seemed more suited for some athletic, alabaster skinned flower child who would dance under the moon for her until it rained silver magic. Not for me, who was sick yet again and laying in bed because going up the stairs made me dizzy. I’d reflect on how I could better listen to her and be prodded with thoughts of my own image. Unfit latinas with dead ends on their hair do not get divine messages. My bad neighborhood, loud family, mismatched dinner plates, crooked teeth, double chin, lack of fashion, broken immune system, and sedentary lifestyle would act as a force field against ever being worth a real spiritual relationship.

It took years and years of work to right myself. Only recently have I made such leaps and bounds to know that she fucking loves me. Adores me. And that she is perfectly suited to all of me.



For full comic, click on the photo


I am afraid of what it means to miss her.

This entity is something I can only interact with on a mental, and deeply spiritual level. When I close my eyes to pray, I imagine I am laying against her chest, or that she is only a small distance from me. There, she is. Right there.

I have dreamt of her, even. In various forms she has appeared, but always spending time with me, watching over me. Interacting with and being near me.

I awaken to nothing. I know that truly, all images I have of her are false. She has no skin, no arms to hold me, no chest to lean against. She does not ‘exist’, she simply ‘is’. It is profoundly comforting, yet deeply disturbing.

I show my dedication and love for her formlessness by devoting myself to never creating art of my beliefs, never writing my story. Yet this form of affection is hard for my humanity to accept. I crave a soothing gaze, a hand to hold, the weight of a heavy sigh.

When I miss her, I feel my heart and soul grasping out. Nothing tangible greets me. It is frightening to love like this.