From Marble to Moss: Why My Spirituality Needs to Breathe Now

I grew up in a belief system that prized stillness over movement, perfection over evolution, and marble over moss. Christian Science taught me that Truth (with a capital T) didn’t need to stretch or bend - it simply was, immovable and absolute. Anything soft or slippery was treated as suspect. Doubt was mortal mind. Emotion was distraction. Grief was something to pray away.

It was, in its own way, a spiritual architecture. Cool. Polished. Unyielding. I learned to build my faith like a monument - clean lines, no cracks. But over time, the marble grew cold. It echoed when I spoke. It offered no place to sit down and cry.

I used to think that made me weak. Now I think it made me human.

What I crave now is not a system that silences my ache, but one that holds it. Not one that promises perfection, but one that allows process. I want a spirituality that breathes, that decays a little, that changes shape when the light hits it differently. Like moss.

Moss doesn’t rush. It doesn’t fight. It grows in shadows and damp corners. It softens everything it touches. It teaches me that resilience doesn’t have to be rigid - that you can be steady and wild, grounded and green.

These days, I’m less interested in belief systems and more interested in belief landscapes. Places where truth isn’t handed down like a marble tablet, but discovered slowly, barefoot, in community, with candles, questions, and breath.

My spirituality needs room to shift. It needs to move with me through grief and change and growth. It needs softness, texture, presence. It needs to be something I can return to, not perform for.

So I’m leaving the marble behind. It was beautiful. It taught me discipline. But it also kept me still. Now, I choose the moss. Alive. Growing. Whispering.

And most importantly: breathing.