LYANDA LYNN HAUPT - ROOTED : life at the crossroads of science, nature,and spirit.

W hen I was in fourth grade, my mother put a copy of Saint Thrse of Lisieuxs diary, The Story of a Soul, in my Easter basket, right alongside the marshmallow bunny. What was she thinking? I devoured the words of this fervent, neurotic, ecstatic young woman who saw the divine in the way a chicken cares for its young, and quickly took up the study of other nature mystics who innately apprehended the graced interconnection of lifeJulian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, Francis of Assisi. They shed their shoes, followed bear tracks, declared the moon a sister, spoke with sparrows, ground forest nettles into healing salves, bowed before trees, baked bread in clay ovens, and called all of it holy. From them I learned that humans can be conversant with the earth and the sacred in strange, imaginative, wild ways. In any way we want.

This is not a book about religion, so if you are religious, or not religious, dont worry. But my adult relationship to nature is rooted in my childhood experience. I know Im in the minority when I say that I loved being raised Catholic. People talk about being recovering Catholics, and Catholic guilt, for good reason. But when young, I knew nothing of religious politics, or of a male-only priesthood (I thought our priest just happened to be a man), or of the yet-to-come sexual-abuse scandals, or reproductive freedom, or marriage equality. Guilt was not emphasized in my church or my home. I knew only that my developing mind responded to the religions playground of imagery both mystical and untamed.

Other childhood friends were not Catholic, and when we ventured to speak of family Sundays I would sit silently wondering. Where were their angels, their candles, their magical water from a giant font that they were allowed to take home in baby-food jars and sprinkle on their heads to keep them safe during sleep? Where were their saints running wild in the desert, in the wilderness, communing with wolves in hidden mountain caves? Where was their young Blessed Christina the Astonishing, who was believed to be dead but, at her own funeral, sat up in her coffin to complain of the priests stench and flew first to the rafters, then to a tree, where she lived among the birds, refusing to come down ever again? Where was their blood? Next to such feral glories all other churches (or no church at all) seemed impoverished.

I didnt even mind the confessions we were required to make each month, though they struck fear in my friends and my little sister. It was certainly a bit overwhelming, entering a darkened room all alone, facing a priest behind a wood-carved grate, and being made to recite my supposed sins. No matter what the catechism taught, Id never believed that a man was needed to intercede for me on behalf of God, whatever God might be. But I believed in the power of sacrament, in very much the way I do todaynot as a Catholic but as a human open to the truth that something can be made sacred by the attention we grant it.

And so one day in fifth grade when it was my turn, I stepped into the narrow confessional and knelt. The room smelled faintly of urine, for it was rumored that Mikey Roberts had been so scared at his own confession the month previous, hed peed his new corduroy pants. I ignored this and readied myself for my impending purity.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I whispered as I made the sign of the cross. I could see Father Sandergelds large nose from my side of the gratered from his daily motorcycle rides before the advent of sunscreen, but also, we all assumed, from the drink that kept him company most nights. He leaned his head into his hand, pretending, as was the custom, not to see who was there through the insufficient screen.

Yes, my child?

I am often mad at my mother. Father sighed. What sins does a fifth grader really have? He must have heard this a million times.

Be patient with your mother. She loves you very much.

I am mean to my sister.

She is younger than you. I knew he could see mehow else would he know I was the eldest Haupt sister? It is up to you to set a good example. For your penance, say ten Hail Marys.

Things were going my way. I loved the Hail Mary. To me, Mary was a mother-goddess who appeared to orphan children in poor countries, who in her guise as the Lady of Guadalupe, threw tropical roses upon the impoverished cloak of Juan Diego though it was winter, whose own cloak shimmered with stars. She protected all of nature. I longed for her to appear to me and often wept that she did not. Praying to her came naturally.

I will say twenty! I announced fervently, causing Father to sigh again.

Ten will suffice.

There is one more thing.

I loved having a secret, but I yearned to tell someone, and I knew of no one else who would not intrude once they heard. Still, I was a little frightened. Maybe this really was a sin. One Holy Catholic Church, the creed proclaimed, after all. Perhaps Father Sandergeld would be angry or tell my mother or demand that I stop altogether.

I summoned my courage.