I Found God at the Circus

He was wearing a red-striped suit, a worn top-hat. When he spoke, microphone in hand, the whole crowd listened, staring back in awe. Tucked away in the last row, I opened my eyes as wide as they could go, trying  to see better, emboldened by that golden childhood logic. I followed as He introduced each act, each miraculous defiance of anatomy and gravity. God instructed His faithful audience on where to look and when, directing our eyes above, above, above –

One thing I should mention before I go on is that I always wanted to be a nun. Draped in dark garments and humble habits, I pictured the rest of my life as a long string of Sundays. Growing up in my town, Sundays took on the same tint and shape as recess, ripe mangos, bare feet touching the riverbank. It wasn’t about mass but about what wrapped around it, making the whole day feel glossy and momentous. Mamá wore her joy as brightly as she did her freshly-ironed dress, braiding mine and my big sister’s hair with the meticulous artistry she reserved for God alone. The sermons, the praying, the kneeling, were all repetitive enough that I could get through it by thinking of what came after: how we would take the long way home, immersed in a game of Bible-pretend with the other kids.

Mamá wasn’t exactly delighted when I told her my future plans. Eventually something fell into place, something that to me was an implicit blessing of a life in the nunnery: chastity. One less daughter to worry about, she probably reasoned, having plenty of experience with men who shake off their responsibilities with the same delirious urgency as they do their clothes.

Which reminds me: it was my father, as he insisted we call him, who took us to the circus that afternoon.

“I went when I was your age,” he said to my sister and me. “They have elephants! And lions jumping through rings of fire!”

There were no such things. Our father, as Mamá like to remind us, was from the city, where the visiting circus comes with lions and sin abounds in every streetcorner. “Por eso es bueno que apenas ni tenemos calles aquí,” she would finish off with, giggling at her own cleverness. Compared to the mystical city-circus we had now created in our heads, this one was modest and austere despite its colorful facade. Catholic, in many ways.

The blue-orange tent had been erected in the fields right outside the town; the living quarters for the circus folk carelessly scattered by the big road that climbed up the mountain range. I was instantly glad there were no exotic animals in tow — with no fence and this close to la cordillera, they would surely find the way out of their cages, run away and search for their own. It's what wild things do.

Once inside, my sister’s disappointment at the scale and lack of animals of the circus took the shape of a permanent pout, a folding of the arms. Sitting next to her, I was, on the other hand, elated.

There were juggling pins, too many to count. There were clowns, which earned a half-smile from my sister and a big belly-laugh from my father. There was a contortionist who folded in half — we were as horrified as we were allured by his bending spine. And in between each, God was there, guiding His congregation to a state of boisterous delight. At the mystery of the acts, the faith we all had the spinning plates wouldn’t crack and the tightrope walker wouldn’t fall. He, however, embodied no doubt — confident in His all-knowing nature, God knew the circus folk would never deviate from His plan.

“And now” announced God from the center His makeshift altar, “please help me welcome Ana Lisa, la aerialista!”

Wearing a white leotard on a small frame, the woman, Ana Lisa, grabbed the hoop with one hand and, simply, leaped. Aggressively lit by two spotlights, she was a blinding silhouette twirling and flying above the audience. Un ángel, I couldn’t help but think. She alternated between replicating the ring’s shape with her fluid body and letting it go altogether, holding herself up with just her hips, the crook of her elbow. This surely was the Holy Spirit I had heard so much about — the wings of a white dove fluttering in my chest. This, her, was worthy of worship.

For her final move, the aerialist’s legs curled up around the hoop, allowing her torso and long brown hair to swing free below her, soaring upside down with impossible grace.

A sleeping being inside me stirred.

By then, I already suspected my aspirations for a pious life were tortuously connected with my desire to avoid the touch of man, the bed I then believed a woman was supposed to share. To make and to keep every day. But maybe there was another way — how about being 20 feet off the air? I didn’t know it then as I do now, but that night at the circus, when God stepped off the stage, something else replaced Him.

It never left.

The next day — Sunday, though suddenly lackluster, I sat on the pews, listened to the sermon, sang the songs. I knelt, but when all heads bowed down, I looked up. This was, I realized, the inverse of my previous night at the circus. Mass was also a robed master of ceremonies, leading an audience. A show, a performance. Did they know it could be fun, that we could replace praying hands for claps? I wanted to be my pueblito’s messiah, preach to the town that humility and praise were much more welcomed sensations through the container of spectacle. That God’s words could be felt, tingling and daring, when someone actually walked on water — or air.

“Trust in God,” was all Mamá had to say about the matter, clearly displeased.

My ideas were apparently childish blasphemy on my tongue. I couldn’t make sense of it. I had seen God, heard His booming voice, yet relating my revelation was heresy. He took on a human form once, why He couldn’t do it twice I didn’t understand. Catholics and questions don’t mix well I came to find out.

This was nonetheless the start of my doubt, the beginnings of juggling my belief with the rest of myself.

In the end, I didn’t run away and join the circus. I didn’t become a nun either. I followed God—my god, Circus god—to the places He frequented most—tents and planes and loud venues full of life-praise, mystery and flying angels. I contorted my life to fit my emboldened golden faith, turned water cups into wine glasses, found hands and hips strong enough to twirl my whole body 20 feet above the ground, no net below.

Once in the sinful city, I figured God was everywhere. I just needed to open my eyes as wide as they could go. Tonight, I find him in our bed, while your legs raise me higher, hold me in place as I rise. Above, above, above–

I leap, elated. I run away from my cage and towards the sacred space between your lioness teeth, finding my own.

It’s what wild things do.