Long ago, who knows how long really, the Iroquois told the story of creation with all the world upon the back of a turtle swimming through the heavens. Whether it’s a symbol or a metaphor is somewhat irrelevant, and whether you want to believe in that version of creation makes no difference in my life.

Ultimately, I believe in something, I know I do, but I don’t know what.

Today, I woke up with the mad mad mad (very mad) (oh so mad) (please stop the madness mad) mad desire to have faith. Instead, I found myself (no small task) staring into a mirror seeing only a man vaguely reminiscent of my father (and his father before him) wondering if this is what a jellyfish thinks about too.

I am not a jellyfish.

At least as far as I know, I’m not a jellyfish.

What if I am a jellyfish?

I consider shaving for a moment, then I’m grateful because I’m certain a jellyfish never considers shaving even for a moment.

I don’t shave. If I shaved, then tomorrow I wouldn’t consider shaving and maybe then I’d have no way to know I’m not a jellyfish.

I stomp my feet a little to scare away the soul of a cat lingering on the edge of my memory, and head out the door into the city of Lowell. To be more precise, I head out into the Pawtucketville neighborhood in the city of Lowell and start walking down University Ave toward the Merrimack River.

If this were a better story, I’d be doing this with a better reason, but as it stands, I’m heading to a little bookstore to pour coffee. If one of the many gods  running the world is aware of my steps, it is left unclear.

I think of eleven people as cross the bridge then walk down Merrimack Street. None of them are aware I’m thinking of them. Oddly, I am not entirely sure this means they aren’t a god. I’m not positive thinking of them means I’m not a jellyfish.

Whether I am or not doesn’t actually matter. Whether I want to be or not matters even less. I decide to believe in something and wonder if Buddha wants me to believe in something specific. I don’t actually care. I’ve been a Red Sox fan my whole life and I understand the nature of suffering is desire.

Once I’m behind the counter, I find the cloth the with the sanitizer. I find the cups. I find the coffee. I find a lot of things, but not myself.

Not the answers.

This is how a day begins.

“Hey! How are you today?” I ask the stranger being as unstrange as a stranger can be.

She smiles as if she knows me, as if I’m not a jellyfish (is that proof enough?), “Not bad, you?”

I laugh, “best day of my life, best day of my life.”

With her right eyebrow arched her long blond hair bounced just a bit as she tilts her head, “Really? This is the best day of your life?”

“Sure,” I tell her, “of course it is. I woke up breathing.”

She rolls all the eyes she has and continues on about the conversation as if I were real. I wonder, is this proof I’m real? Do unreal creatures even wonder, never mind wonder if they’re real?

“What can I get you?”

She tells me her holy litany of latte — a chanted benediction of steamed skim and a squirt of flavor over well-meaning espresso. I accept this as true. I accept that this is her desire. I accept that without this she will suffer.

I believe something.

I draw espresso into a cardboard cup, smile and demand she have a good day.

There is a poem in this moment, I know there has to be.

I am definitely not a Jellyfish, but I’ll be damned if I know why.

I’ll be damned either way.

I laugh.