On not going to church and the sound of moving water

I've tried several churches in the rural area of Wisconsin I've been living in temporarily. The first church was very nice and had lovely hand-made pews. It also had six members total, all crushing 80, and four of them winter in Arizona. Another church offered the best coffee I have ever tasted in a church -- with a bottle of local cream instead of half and half -- but the pastor's "teaching sermon" laid out for us exactly which portions of the American population were going to hell. There was even a list up on the audio-visual screen accompanied by a colored pie chart. The text got smaller and smaller as the list went on. I worried that somewhere in the print too small for me to read were the words Fat Former English Majors From Minnesota. Perhaps any minute an an usher was going to come escort me out. The next church I tried had a sign on the door that said "Closed. New carpet curing."

Now I don't have to go to church. I'm a grownup. No one will push me into white tights and Mary Janes and pull a Sunday dress over my head ever again. I could spend Sunday morning lounging in my underwear, reading Ngaio Marsh mystery novels, and drinking Irish Coffees if I felt like it. Or cleaning the bathroom. Or shopping at Target. Or curling up in my bed with the dog and that Star Trek fantasy where I am an ensign and I end up on a deserted planet with an alien cloud-monster and Captain Picard.

But, oh, the guilt of a religious upbringing. The little voice that says "It's Sunday." The little voice that whispers
"Sunday is for church." The little voice that says "You might meet wonderful people."  The little voice that won't shut up.

Today the little voice was very loud. I told it that I had nothing clean to wear to church (really true). There was silence from the voice -- one of those silences that is full of words. I told it that I was going to spend the morning industriously cleaning as my kitchen isn't fit for a pig to live in (really true). More silence. I broke first. I fled.

But I didn't go to a church. I threw the dog in the car and I spent the morning by a creek on DNR conservation land. Tiny gray birds were singing in voices four times their size. Doves were hooting. A bald eagle circled overhead. My dog chased a field mouse, zigzagging back and forth, tail wagging, both flanks collecting sticking burrs as he ran. The creek was clear and clean, and the water ran fast, gurgling as it curved around big rocks and making that rushing sound as it fell over mini-waterfalls. I walked and walked, but then I wanted to stop and just listen to the water. The voice said in my head, "Well, if you're not going to go to church, at least you can get some exercise. You look like Sergeant Schultz these days." A second voice, who has a touch of brogue, said, "No, you've walked far enough. Sit down and just listen to the water." I said to the second voice, "But it's only April. The ground will be wet." The second voice said, "Weenie. Mama's little princess. 'Fraid of a little damp." So I took off my outer fleece jacket, folded it up for a cushion, and sat down on the creek bank. I listened to the water. I was the only person around. I heard a hawk screech. I watched a stray pinfeather from a mourning dove flutter in the breeze. The field mouse won the chase. The dog, who minces around puddles and hates to have snowflakes fall on him, astonished me by wading into the middle of the creek for a long drink. I thought about things. I stopped thinking. I listened to the moving water.

On the way home the little voice started to say something in a sarcastic tone. The second voice, the one with a touch of brogue, interrupted and said "Shut up, you. Her mind quieted down for a bit, the dog was happy, it didn't rain on them. That's enough for this morning." I couldn't have said it better myself.