I’ve been digging writing about religions lately, all kinds, for and against, testimonies and arguments, reasoned and hysterics. About to move from my home-state, away from my hometown (again), I’ve been thinking a lot about my religious teen years–why I believed it, why I left it, why I stay away. All the contradictions (of the religion, of the religious, of my religious self). All the swirled and swirling emotions, then and now.
And I found Natalie Lyalin’s poem to be both comforting as I look back and an example of the writing I’m using to look back. It’s all of the above–a testimony and an argument, for and against, reasoned and a bit hysterical. It’s a poem to carry with me, too.
We joined a cult
It was beautiful
Our cult, it was helpful to others
We were not phantoms
No, we were real gems
We had depth
But our house
It remained a mystery
Who survived there?
Who survived?
.