The Angels remind us that what we’re seeking can’t be found with any politician, religious leader, teacher, spouse, partner, or child, nor any school, job, or role we play in life. WE are what we’ve been seeking. Let’s not allow this world to divide us, when we are already whole.
All souls are refugees
Seeking a greater life, a higher purpose,
Lost in the wanderings
Of their own internal wars
Who dares love them?
Who dares turn them away?
Our hardened hearts
Can’t see their exiled souls
Our brothers and sisters of the light
We see only fear and turn away,
Unwilling or unable to accept
The refugee of our own being
What if God is in their skin?
What if God is in the terror?
Maybe divinity is found not in walls
Or even prayers,
But in the fear that we admonish,
The shame we drive away like a mirror
What if God is in all the places and people
We find uncomfortable or unworthy
In the vast fearful parts of our hearts
Where we shut out the light?
And if that’s where our true divinity lies,
Then how will we ever see the truth?
And will we forever slam the door
On the refugee soul?
You search your whole life
for your purpose, your path
you climb the mountains
ask the questions
get the degrees
cry in the night for the answers
until you feel it’s a lost cause,
the answer isn’t for you
But child, it is
and seeking is not the path,
you must listen
and be still
and open your eyes
to what is right in front of you
and all around you,
your destiny lies in who you are,
what you love,
the passion that gets you
fiery and red-hot inside
the joy that you bring
not just to others
but to yourself
take in the spirit that is calling,
the breath of life
moves through you each moment
reveals your passion
brings you joy
gives you purpose
guides your path
whispers that you are enough,
and that is all you ever need to be
burns bright and exposes
all your sullen and dingy
thoughts on god and why
he doesn’t show up in your life
more often, compels you to examine
under the force of the pounding waves
your acts of defiance
in the name of self-preservation
but which self is still unclear,
despite the microscope and
operating table where you can
carefully dissect and then put
the pieces back together
stitch by stitch, like a Frankenstein
doll with a porcelain heart,
stuck together with tacky glue
that is only guaranteed for a few years
and after that who knows what happens
to those shattered pieces?
Do they break apart and float,
getting lodged in the crevices?
Or do they simply disintegrate
as if they never existed?
You think the glue will hold
because you always were naïve
and the patched up parts
are your religion, the glue-filled
cracks where you find your god