Friday, September 30, 2016

To Miss the Mystery

To miss the mystery – neither notice
nor much care about each human
being’s strange inimitable history –
was surely, I once thought, to miss

the only thing that mattered. To think
what scattered on the surface was
the whole event:  that was reason
to repent – to numb the miracle of being

human in the gloom of existential gray:
as if what filled a day were merely
planetary habits: dumb proclivities
of reproducing rabbits. All manure.

But I’m not sure.
Maybe letting go
of spiritual hubris
is the cure.

Imagining the cure for yearning for ‘real’
meaning means uncovering the only
seemingly unseen may mean we’re more
in love with our imaginations than we are

with seeing. The spiritual archaeology
of sifting through what patently appears
for what is merely the apparent absence
of what’s really here: that may be to miss

the whole. There is no soul. Everything
is visible and indivisible. Nothing’s hidden.
Maybe spiritual archaeology should be
forgiven for its folly – if not forbidden.

But I’m not sure.
Maybe if we seek
the Soul we’ll
find the cure.

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