The stuffed cat toy hits the blinds with a satisfying thump, then falls to the floor. I throw another one. Thump.
This is what I do instead of praying after a tiring and difficult day.
This past week, most days felt impossible. Saying goodbye to my externship clinic left me in tears; I wasn’t ready to move on. Then came a group project that needed constant fixing, most of which I quietly ended up handling. On top of that, I’d double-booked myself: the flight ticket I’d already bought was set to depart on the exact hang-out date my friend group spent months planning.
I’m one of those people who needs to control her own life. When things don’t follow the plan I laid out, or start falling out of place, the urge to correct them kicks in fast. Letting go doesn’t come easy, and I feel disappointed when I don’t get what I wanted. People who move through the world without a care, who shrug and flow with whatever life throws at them: I desperately envy that.
Then I’d blame it on God. I’d be like, God, I don’t know what lessons you’re trying to teach me, because I’m not smart enough to see them. But I don’t like what you’re doing. Maybe it’s not even your doing, but the fact that you’re not shielding me from these bad things that keep happening feels like proof that you are NOT THERE FOR ME.
Turns out I’m not the only one who does this. People usually blame it on something out of their control so they don’t have to bear the burden of responsibility and guilt for the shit that happened to them. That shit happened TO them, not because of them.
Healthcare people blame it on the full moon. It’s only on nights of the full moon that a respiratory distress, a hit-by-car, and a seizure case show up all at once, like they’re all buddies walking into a bar.
Vietnamese people blame it on a particular month called tháng cô hồn—ghost month—which falls on the seventh month of the lunar calendar, roughly August-September on our regular calendar (which is right-freakin-now). Traditional folklore says spirits of people who didn’t get a proper burial, or who died a horrible death, roam the earth during this month. People offer food on their altars to appease the wandering souls and ask them not to cause trouble. Some Vietnamese also believe the month itself carries bad luck because of all those restless spirits around. So anything bad that happens, blame it on the month. (Didn’t expect to get culturally educated on a veterinary-centric Substack, did you? Never let them know your next move.)
But blaming God assumes I know which God I’m even blaming. The thing is, I don’t even have one particular one.
I don’t like it when people ask if I’m Christian, just because a lot of my friends are. Or if I’m Buddhist, just because my family is.
I don’t like it because I don’t want to be conformed into a label, when in fact I don’t know the answer myself. I don’t have a clear answer for you, because being in any religion has very different meanings, connotations, and deeply hidden emotional baggage to everyone. I also don’t want to give off the wrong impression. Maybe that’s the people-pleasing trait I’m still trying to fix, but I digress.
You might offer me the label of agnostic. Or pantheist. Or ietsist. Or some word I’ve never heard before. But I’m telling you I want to believe in all of the above. I believe there is a cool wise guy named Jesus who loves the world and would do anything for it, while also believing there is a female goddess named Quan Thế Âm Bồ Tát who protects me when I’m in trouble. I believe in reincarnation, but still worship my ancestors’ altar and pray for their protection as if they’re still up there watching over me. I believe in all these things even when they contradict, but so what? I don’t think humans are wise enough yet to break down the presence of the universe’s divineness into simple terms. They might seem contradicting to us, but in a world outside of our humbling comprehension, contradictions may coexist in their own strange and harmonious ways.
Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to accept and welcome other people’s religious ideals, and not just out of curiosity. Because if that is the truth to you, who am I to deny that? Who am I to deny your experiences and your existence?
Perhaps these religious figures exist to help us navigate the hardships of life. Perhaps that’s too anthropocentric a way to explain something this divine, wrapping its existence around our existence. Yet no matter how much I cry into my pillow at night, or how many curse words I throw at the sky, life still rolls around, and I still wake up the next morning with sunshine above my eyes. I want to believe that it’s because the Universe and its Gods haven’t given up on me yet. And perhaps that’s reassuring enough to keep going.