I have heard that cats purr at the frequency of self-healing.

I don’t usually express intense emotions. I worry about this a lot, that perhaps there’s something wrong with me because I don’t laugh as long, or worry as much, or get as indignant about things as others. Sometimes, though, I think that I’m on the verge of an intense emotion, but I internalize it so much that it turns into something else. It’s something I feel physically, something at my core that borders on anguish or joy or whatever. Sometimes that feeling makes my hair stand on end, or builds up that pressure behind my eyes, or fills my lungs with air in anticipation of crying out, but the exclamation never comes, the tears never fall, and nothing ever boils over. I keep the emotion to myself and the moment in which I could have bonded with another person is gone. There is something, even if it didn’t get expressed as the emotion I was hoping to convey. I imagine this thought or idea or feeling inside me, vibrating at a certain frequency that can’t be heard by human ears. Still, it resonates with me.

Over the last week, there have been two such things:

The Crucifixion. Seriously, did you really think that I’d escaped seven years of Catholic school unscathed? Anyway, for whatever reason, it’s been coming up a lot lately (btw, has anyone ever tried to explain Christianity to people who don’t already know something about it? You sound NUTS). Whenever I think about the crucifixion, I think about Christ’s words on the cross, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” One of Christianity’s redeeming qualities is that it’s dark and twisty. Despite being an optimist and idealist, I like dark and twisty. There’s something about the supposed son of God losing his faith in that very God that’s sublime to me. It speaks to the truth that our faith in anything means nothing if we do not question it from time to time.

I have heard that the ability to feel conflicted is a sign of intelligence (if this is the case, then I’m a frickin’ genius).

Life. I know that sounds cheesy or ridiculous, but life really is marvelous to me. I just finished reading an article in the “New Yorker,” the “Mannahatta Project,” by Nick Paumgarten. It’s about a lovely project currently taking place in Manhattan where scientists and researchers are trying to recreate what New York looked like before it became New York. As the article made mention of animals now extinct (or at the very least displaced), or the streams that had been filled in with garbage, or the hills that had been leveled and the forests that had been clearcut, my heart ached for the loss of biodiversity, the loss of life, that I hadn’t even known. I feel a great sadness for the New York that was lost and can never be recovered, but at the same time, I feel an affection for the present New York and its current diversity that has replaced the diversity of old. Life in New York is still beautiful and I can just as easily feel a connection to what is, as I can to what was.

I have heard that if you stand in a place, or touch something, that is ancient, you can hear the stories of what that place or thing has seen.

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