I have never been a staunch believer.

Nor am I a confirmed atheist. Instead, I have consistently chosen the path of least resistance, i.e. the firm conviction that it is impossible to know whether God exists or not because both profound belief and atheistic denial are simply matters of faith.

And yet—go figure—I have often felt the presence of something I have come to call God. I feel it while gazing at a gorgeous sunset. Or looking at the face of my newborn child for the very first time. Or contemplating any of the infinity of things that regularly remind me of the astonishing miracle that is life.

All of which has led to a dichotomy between what I think and what I feel. Between, to put it another way, a strictly agnostic intellect and wildly spiritual emotional life. Those two entities, in fact, occupy separate compartments of my soul, allowing me to maintain a stoic rationalism while also experiencing the supreme joys surrounding the mystery of existence. And it is that profound wonder, frankly, that caresses me awake each morning.

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