There was a fine line between religion and science, between exploration and faith, and I danced that line like a tightrope walker suspended in a circus tent. Daughter of a chemist, daughter of a dead man, daughter of god.

It was almost too many contradictions for such a small child, juxtaposition waging a civil war in my soul.

The preachers and the teachers taught me hymns of the miracles of god, of angels with wings of purity, and of a man who was a god and was nailed down with his arms wide to take all of our sins
onto himself.

The professors and my mothers’ students taught me words from the dictionary and their definitions, of a table that was a list of everything the world around me was made of, and of the laws and rules that defined every spark of energy and pull of gravity in the universe.

My knees knew the feeling of wooden church pews, and my hands knew the brickwork patterns of college walls, my mouth was familiar with the taste of communion wine, and in my ears the scratching of dozens of pencils sounded like a symphony of belonging, and my eyes were turned towards the stars, knowing they were all consuming spheres of plasma but wishing upon them with a blind faith anyway.

But despite adoring both the lord and the science of the world, it seemed as if no one understood the way they wove together in seamless harmony, the way they complemented each other in complete sync with one another, the way they came together and made such integral parts of me.

The knots that tied the threads of religion and science together were only visible to me, and despite my efforts to explain, no one else could understand.

And I was a scientist, and I was a believer, and physics were a blessing from God, and miracles were the result of chemistry, and I was myth and fact and testing and trusting and prayer and action and everything and nothing all at once. I was at one with every other being in the universe, and I was completely alone.