Essence

At my very core, I am a philosopher, a dreamer. I have been trying to make sense of the world around me since my first expedition to mass with my catechism class at the magical age of five. This was the day I learned that god is a man-made creation that evolved out humanity's need to understand the world around in which it lives.

Mother had dressed me in my best little suit, with my black, Patten-leather, shoes, and my whitest knee-high socks. I sat quietly in the pew, listening to Don Jose's sermon about who gets into heaven. He told us about the slim chances a rich man had getting into heaven (which apparently are less than a camel's ability to squeeze through the eye of a needle). As I soaked in all the golden splendor of my little town's gold laden church, and I patiently awaited for "the angel" to come down the aisle asking for my tithing. It was shortly after being humiliated when I learned that "the angel" was not real, that I experienced my first break-down. I was walking out of the chapel, after praying three Hail Mary's for not giving the money to the attendant, when my knees gave out, my vision became blurred, and I felt as if I'd just walked into a vacuum. At that moment, the brunt of awareness overpowered me. "None of this is real," I thought. "This god story doesn't make sense. It lacks logic." The illogical theory of a creator sucked the air out of my lungs. For a few seconds, nothing felt real. I had the strangest sensation that I was made out of air and my body was becoming part of all what touched it. I remember reaching out to touch a wall, convinced that my hand would go through it. I heard my undecipherable whisper echo in the empty church, "there is no god. There is no god." I walked home in a stupor. I don't even remember if my brothers were with me. When I reached our little chalet-home, I walked right into my Father's study, stood in front of him with my hands at my hips, and pronounced, "There is no god!."  He held out his arms. I crawled into his embraced and cried. After he dried my eyes and cheeks, my Father told me that life would be difficult for me, and that I would have to find my own answers. After that Sunday, my "church" became staying home with Father, playing chess and trying to find answers to a question I'd thought of during the week in our family encyclopedia.

I thought about Father and the day I awakened from the theist faery tale quite a bit during the last two years. I wish he were alive to help me answer some of the big questions which have plagued me. I have spent the better part of two years trying to design a definition of essence, so that I can begin to understand my part in the world. I would love to sit across from him, with that old marble chess board and tell him, "I have the early stages of it Father. What do you think?

Essence:  The exponential and cumulative collection of subjective feelings and memories generated by life events experienced by an individual, which make up the moral compass to give a person purpose and meaning, in order to facilitate survival, and defined by the moment in time when the individual reflects upon it; therefore, fluid.