I am not spiritual. I don’t really know what it means to be spiritual, but I’ve guessed “no” when I’ve been occasionally asked. I am uncomfortable with the unknown. Maybe that’s why I write fantasy books, because the mystical, magical space my brain craves is self-contained, manageable—delicious but reassuringly confined to my own rules. I don’t know.
My mom thinks I’m spiritual. She also thinks I probably secretly believe in God. We’ve argued about this before.
“I would know it if I did,” I say.
“You just don’t like the way it’s described,” she says, “that doesn’t mean you don’t feel something.”
I shake my head and think she just wants her daughter to have religion. She doesn’t want me to miss out.
I don’t want to miss out, either, but my mind stays strictly on its path. I listen when friends talk astrology, but only out of politeness and sometimes, if I’m feeling wild, fun. I don’t want to miss out, but much more than that, I’m proud of my straightforward rationalism.
This story I’m about to tell is one of the only spiritual things that’s ever happened to me. The others were tiny. (I’m defining “spiritual” like this: it felt spiritual.)