As a child, I believed that all I could touch and see was real. I also believed that the backyard tree had a door that led to a hidden land. It was by playing in the tree that my fascination for bugs took root. They were real. I could hold them. Caterpillars and beetles became my best friends. They always seemed to know where they were going, even if I had to set them in the right direction to find food.

At the age of six, I came upon a smooth, round stone. It was holy, it was enchanting and it began a lifelong love affair with stones. Whenever I found a perfect pebble, I slipped it into my pocket. At the end of the day, it would still be there. Unlike bugs, my stones didn't move around. I could also squeeze one in the palm of my hand. They were so real, like food in my belly, like a blanket pulled over my skin.

The following year we moved to a house without a chimney. It was early fall, but I was already stricken. Santa was not going to fit through the small pipe on our roof. I thought up brilliant inventions and pestered my mother with questions. She finally took me aside, all the way into the guestroom. "Santa isn't real," is what she said.

"What do you mean he's not real? Why would you let me believe in something that wasn't real?"

I beat the bed with my small fists and cried. I wanted to beat her too. During this time, I learned that a belief, which felt as real as a stone, could be wrong.

Christmas came that year with bursts and tears. On New Year's Day, I went to see my grandmother. She was deeply religious and we often spoke of God on our visits. I liked to talk about heaven more. What did it look like? If I died before Dad, would I have to wait for him alone? It suddenly dawned, "Bitsy is there now! If I get there early I can play with her." Bitsy was our family dog that had recently died. Grandmother grabbed my excited hands, "Animals can't go to heaven," she said. "They don't have souls."

She didn't know that her words emptied my own soul. Why would God make a rule like this? So struck was I that I began to question what made a belief real and what did not. Words, I found, were the key. Words planted beliefs and chopped them down. My grandmother's words were her own beliefs. It was up to me to state mine. I started by saying, "Animals will be in my heaven."

Today, I still believe that all I can touch and see is real. I believe that other people's words shape our beliefs, but it is up to each of us to determine how much. More powerfully, I believe that my words shape my beliefs the most. Only I am responsible to stand for them.