Hello, God? It’s Me Again.


I felt at once as if I belonged, like I was held for a moment, an unusual feeling for someone who spent their whole life trying desperately to find their place.

I had found it now. An unusual electric sensation made its way up my spine, as if in celebration of this exciting moment, scattering shocks that shook my discs. I liked it. This is what everyone else must feel. This is what they’re all talking about. I couldn’t explain it myself, it wasn’t really a moment I could pinpoint, just that I knew I was connected to God.

I’ve always hated the word God, it’s loaded with so many misconceptions. You say God and everyone looks at you like you just picked up a guitar to sing the word of the good Lord, hallelujah. Not that there’s anything wrong with that per se, just that it’s not really my bag. I’m more of a pantheist, universal higher power type gal. Keepin’ it open.

I like my New Age with some substance, but not the kind of immovable substance that you have to subscribe to for life. I like to find my own practice, though that doesn’t mean that I’m not open to other views.

I’ve always loved comparative religion, because I know deep down that the true comparison is that they’re all talking about the same thing. From the Sufis to the shamans, Hasidic Jews to love and light manifestors, it’s all the same, just packaged a little different. My problem has never been the ifs and buts, myths and stories, but more the putting it into action.

Usually I feel kind of flat and sad, like I’m ringing an old friend only to find that their number has changed. Well, f**k them, I thought we were buddies and they didn’t even care to tell me they’ve got a new number? See what I mean? Spirit just don’t got my back, it’s me against the world.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just recognize that God doesn’t want to know and crack on with my life, forget about it, and get a job in a carpet shop or some other equally meaningless career, and oh how I wish I could (sometimes), but I know that rare thrill now and I want more, even if for the most part I’m stuck on the other end of the line, trying twenty different numbers given to me by varying levels of cracked-out weirdos, turning up at God’s house only to find that, guess what, she ain’t there, again.

I guess it doesn’t help that my progressive views, of what/who/how God is, are pretty hazy, but then how can we really know what is God? I’m just keeping my options open, making sure that when judgment day comes, he/she/they/it (God) knows that I wasn’t sitting around calling her a dude or something.

The only way I can describe the feeling is that it’s like being home. Like you’ve just been on a huge long arduous journey and finally you’re home with a blanket and a cup of cocoa and your mum’s right there, telling you how awesome you did, and how awesome you always do. Yeah, it’s just like that. Soft. Special. Home.

Most people seem to think that having (or being) parents is akin to Spirit, it’s enough by itself, like the immaculate conception, except with f**king, but I really don’t see that.

If my parents were holy, wouldn’t I be like Jesus or something? Instead of camping out in my younger sister’s room trying to figure out how I’m going to make enough money to consistently pay my rent past the age of 30, and then what happens when I’m in my thirties?

Is it okay to see your family as your spiritual refuge then? Well, of course, to some extent, but if I called my mum as much as I call God, she’d probably change her number too.

Maybe it’s just me, something I can’t quite see yet. I know there’s something in there, and don’t ask me where there is, I really couldn’t tell you. All I know is that there is more to this life business than everyone lets on, I just wish they’d let me in to find out.


Ellie Pierpoint is a writer, astrologer and wisecracking alchemist. You can find her at Dismystic.com, where she rants about planetary wisdom, enlightenment, and how the hell we’re all going to survive the nightmare that is existence (hint: it’s not nearly as hard as we think).


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