Hear no prophets

When considering a partner -- whether it's a college crush-turned-boyfriend or a traditional arranged-marriage type scenario -- we try to answer certain questions. How does this person fit into my life? Is he kind? Is she funny? Do we value education/financial security/hobbies about equally? And so on.

Then we leave a little room for uncertainties. Markets may crash so jobs are lost, people fall sick without warning. Life happens. The future is uncertain, and so we hedge our options in the here and now. My boyfriend cares for his grandmother, so he's probably going to be kind to our parents as they age. She volunteers to read to the blind, she'll probably be a good mother to a disabled child. And so on.

The future is a mystery. There are risks. Etc. And so we make our choices in the present with these things in mind. Some assume that our actions now are a good karma stockpile for the future. Others say that all we have is the here and now.

To quote the cliche: Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why we call it the present. Break that down some more, and the present turns from this day to this hour, this second, this moment. Only now.

And so we choose a lover or a spouse to share our life based on moments.

I wish more of us would do the same when we choose a religious leader to follow. Does my faith distance me from the people I love? Is my religion disconnected from the life I live as a regular human being in the world today? If I had to choose, at this moment, between my family and my faith, which would I pick?

Recently, a 17 year old girl with a highly curable form of cancer refused chemotherapy because her religious faith forbade her from filling her body with toxins. In another context, this same girl might say her God placed all life on earth with a purpose. So was her purpose to die at 17, or was it to cure cancer at 45? We might never know, because a court overruled her decision and she's receiving treatment.

The trouble with such faith is that it drowns out the possibilities. Life emerged from randomness -- a beautiful, miraculous coming forth of molecules in perfect harmony. When we focus single-minded on a certain faith/ religion/ guru, we lose the diversity that comes from seeing the big picture.

Serendipity -- and yes, miracles -- stem from remaining in the infinite potential of now. Stick your head too far into the clouds, fill your ears with the ringing of a prophet's voice, and you might miss the soft strength of the earth you stand on, the very earth that lifts you high enough to reach the clouds in the first place.

That earth is ground reality -- the people that tend your basic Maslow-ian needs. Just for today -- for this moment, NOW -- try this: Feel the ground beneath your feet. Drown your beliefs. Hear no prophets.

They promise that their voices will ring through all eternity. But the earth slips away.

Walking without wizards

Middle Earth is littered with orcs, demons, giant man-hating trees, and power-hungry kings. But my teen self was more terrified by one character's death. Years after I read the books, I'd wake night after night from a recurring nightmare of being Frodo, knowing Gandalf was dead, and having to walk on anyway.

With a wizard around, you can be fairly sure that no matter how many monsters attack, the world will sort itself out at the end. The lack of certainty that haunted my nightmares was, as I'm beginning to realize, excellent preparation for being a grown up. Being an adult is essentially an act of embracing uncertainty.

Unlike the stuff of childhood, there aren't any grades or peers to tell you how cute you look, or how good or terrible you are at a certain subject. There's no grading curve to simplify the hard bits, and no parents to swipe away hurt with a hug. There is no binary outcome to most of life's tests, and several come with no guaranteed returns for the work you put in. Every once in a while there really is no version of the story where the good guys win. And no, there certainly aren't any dashing princes -- or wizards (who seem more useful anyway) -- charging up on shining white horses to rescue either hobbit or helpless human.

Sometimes you know the wizard is dead, but you walk into the scary dark places anyway, because there's a job to be done. If you're lucky, you'll have a friend to hold your hand. Maybe it'll even be someone who will carry and drag you through the hardest parts. Be certain there will be armies and giant spiders and trolls to throw you off your mission. If you're lucky, you'll hold something precious, and have someone dear to remind you of why you're in this mess.

Some  of us might get to go home at journey's end: to hillside hobbit-holes, or palaces with elvish queens, or more eternal dwellings. Maybe, just maybe, the walk will be worth it. But however it ends, we'll all have a story to tell.

And so, this year, a wish to remember the good parts: I hope you remember the precious things you carry. I hope you love the story you tell yourself when it's all done. And when magic is sparse, I hope you find your own light to shine through the darkest places.