There was a period in my life when I wanted badly to be religious. I attended church with friends. I attended a Bible study class. I tried writing religious articles for a local newspaper, which got good feedback but left me feeling like a fake. I read up on different denominations and different religions looking for the right one.

When I was little, Auntie, who was more like a grandmother, took us to church. If we were good, we got to sit in the chapel with her instead of going to the children’s classes. I worked hard at being quiet and sitting still so I could be in the grown-up chapel. I loved the smell there, of wood polish and musty books. I loved the songs where everyone knew the words. I loved the sermons, but more the sound of them, the cadence, than because of any understanding of the words. And of course, I loved dressing up and the grown-up clacking sound my shoes made on stone.

When I was a young adult, going to church with friends, I loved the Presbyterian church with its stained glass and simple pews, and it appealed to me because of my Scottish ancestry. I loved the simplicity as much as I loved attending a traditional Catholic mass. I learned that what I loved wasn’t religion but ritual.

But in spite of loving all those aspects, nothing resonated with me, no matter how much I tried. And then, during a Bible study, the teacher read the following verse from Isaiah 55:12. ‘…the mountains and the hills shall break forth into singing before you and the trees of the field shall clap their hands’.

The sudden image of mountains singing and trees clapping their hands resonated. I could just feel the joy in the earth from those words.

My sister introduced me to poetry and Kahlil Gibran’s words ‘And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair’. There, again, words gave me a sense of kinship with the world around me.

Yet I thought I had failed because what I felt couldn’t be religion. I still don’t feel religious. Plus I’m too analytical/skeptical. It’s weird to try and reconcile skepticism with belief.

There’s a difference between religion and spirituality though. One is defined as a specific set of organized beliefs and practices and one is defined as not having those specific organized beliefs. And who knew? There’s even an acronym. SBNR. Spiritual But Not Religious. While I’m not sure that’s me, either, it seems a little closer. Maybe. On the days I can quiet my skeptical thoughts.

I’m proud of my friends who believe with passion and who live their lives according to those beliefs. I love that the practice of religion gives them peace. But I don’t aspire to be that anymore, and I no longer feel like I’ve failed some far-distant male God by not believing, or that I’ve let down my friends.

What I do aspire to is that some day, when I am out in the woods, with my feet on loamy soil and wind in my hair and rain on my face, I will hear the mountains singing and the trees clapping their hands in joy. I will feel the ancient energy of stones and see dreams in clouds and feel the heartbeat of earth under my feet.

That will be my religion and my spirituality.