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.