I’m taking a stab at high writing, though it’s hard to tell how high I am or how good the writing will be. I hit the bowl before putting the kids to bed, and now I’m trying to make sense of all the thoughts I had throughout the day. I know there were a few good ones in there…

When I’m high, I often find myself taking the same walks in my brain, down the same, familiar paths. Like, Oh, I’ve been here before. I know this place. The insecurities, the desires, the feelings of Anxiety and Gratitude and Contemplation, emerging like old friends from the murky shadows of my mind. Is this my religion, I wonder? I think about religion a lot when I’m high.

I met an expert in religious studies today. I’ll call him the Fox. He is shortish, with a slight paunch and an inscrutable expression. His Intro to World Religions course is one of the most popular university courses, but never once in his 27-year tenure has he divulged his personal beliefs. Then again, he doesn’t really believe in beliefs. He’s an open-minded skeptic who thinks faith is a cop-out. He’s not very interested in organized religion and prefers the sacred texts of thousands of years ago. The Secrets of the Universe. Man-made (“Because if God did it, you’d think it would be a little clearer.”). Ancient man, with ancient scrolls and ancient methods of communication, indecipherable to a Google search, so complex and esoteric that my head hurt hearing him explain how to read Buddhist poems.

The Fox doesn’t share secrets with the lazy. He wants his students to unlock the mysteries for themselves. To read. Original sources, preferably. To learn how to argue, reason, critique, and think. He’s paranoid of a conspiracy to “dumb down our kids.” People are all too eager to be told what to think, and it terrifies him. After all, stupid people are easier to control.

The Fox loves the subversion of teaching critical thinking through religion. “It’s like taking a 2-by-4 to the head,” he says, “because religion is the one thing you’re taught not to question.”

So what exactly is religion? He defined it as the connections we make to things larger than ourselves. He couldn’t define God. The problem, he said, is people think they can.

I told the Fox that I grew up without religion, but that I wish I better understood my Hindu roots, and that I think about religion more, now that I am a parent. “That often happens,” he said.

I wasn’t thinking about religion tonight when I hit the bowl, coughed twice and drowned into the pillow. I had a quick spat with Mr. D about not wanting to apply for mortgage pre-approval at this particular second because I was tired and nothing felt better than our bed, and almost immediately, as if on cue, the whines from the girls’ room grew louder.

It was 9:10 as their strident, shrieking screams grew louder. I felt bad, knowing that I’ll be leaving them for a bachelorette party on Saturday night. I feel anxious about leaving, especially when I’ve been a “mentally absent, physically present” parent of late. Last week, I cared for my sick child by plopping her in front of the TV all day. Just two days ago, on an impromptu snow day, I lounged on the couch as the kids played on my iPad. I’m not my best mom self lately, but I haven’t really been my best anything for a while now.

I’ve been riding on my own coat tails at work. I’ve been kissing my own ass over four busy and productive months last year, but I haven’t since worked at that same capacity. Have I been scared? Am I afraid of falling short? Of weakened stamina? Is it laziness? Complacency? All of the above? Is that why anxiety is one of the most frequently recurring friends of my stoned brain?

As I walked to the girls’ room, I thought of pre-weed me, of the mean and ugly mom I once was, back when I was selfish with my time in the moments when they needed me most.

“You know everything we do is your fault,” Big A told me as I entered.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Because you made me and Little A. If you hadn’t made us, then we wouldn’t be in here, screaming.”

I laughed.  “Well,” I said. “I may have made you, but you control the things you do.”

I can’t remember the rest of our conversation, but Big A said something about wanting to write a letter to the president over an especially petty gripe, the particulars of which escape me now. (Damn you, short-term memory loss!) Anyway, it was so comically absurd that I said, “Yeah, he’d probably agree with you. He’s basically a big baby.”

Big A liked that. “Really?” she said, laughing.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “He loves to throw tantrums. If I was his  mom, I’d be… ashamed.”

“Was his mom mad at him?” Little A asked.

“You know… I don’t know anything about his mom,” I said. “I know his dad was rich and got him into good schools and gave him millions of dollars to start a business. So he’s someone who has led a very privileged life. And he doesn’t seem to love books.”

The girls were finally quiet until Big A broke the silence.

“Could I be president someday?” she whispered.

“Of course! If you work hard and find the things that you love to do while also making the world better. Because the Universe gives different gifts to all of us. Like, you have things you’re really good at. And so does Little A. And me. And daddy. And everyone. We just have to use our gifts to do good things.”

“That’s what Martin Luther King wanted,” Big A said.

I then kissed the girls goodnight and told them it was now close to 9:30, and that their little brains needed rest. They’ll need sharp minds to argue, reason, critique and think.