We are, in truth, strangers in a strange land
Spirit, made of flesh,
Not fully here
Not fully there
Dislocated
Perceiving truth in the corners of our vision
Fleeting
Ghosts dancing in smoke
We are not alone in this:
The human condition
Flailing
Grabbing for shadows in the hope of finding something real.
But disrupted,
disturbed –
the smoke dissipates, slipping through our clutching fists
And so we grab at what we know
Our fingers digging into the flesh of another dislocated stranger,
The collective flesh of the human condition locked in frenzied dance of grasping and clutching,
Efforting
Begging
Longing for truth
Desperate to be seen
Known
Valid
Perfect
Achingly frantic to make sense of it all
What would happen if you were to
Stop
Prise your fingers from their death-grip
What if we gave ourselves permission to be free
Free to return to ourselves
Free to inhabit this moment
This breath
This heart beat
Fingers unfurled
The tension released
Watch:
In the stillness of presence,
Wisps of smoke return
The coalescing mystery of spirit,
The sacred eddies of source and essence, pooling in our open palms
The sweet heaviness of deep truth, settling in our lungs
The silken tendrils of this smoky wisdom reaching for our skin with fingers not made for grasping, but caress
The truth of this human condition is found in this moment:
Perfect
Divine
Union
Our flesh and our essence no longer strangers to each other, no longer in a strange land
In the stillness, we are returning home
