I look down at my hands and know that within those tissues and cells, blood is coursing,
minute after minute, circuit upon circuit. But where is my soul in this pink, freckled flesh? Where is my spirit in this troubled, pondering life?
Is the soul hitching a ride on red blood cells as they careen by the white?
Is my spirit holed up in one of my vital organs? My brain, maybe? Concentrated in a command center, overseeing all my worldly cognition.
Perhaps soul and spirit share space, intertwined in the four chambers of my pulsing heart.
But when the soul is gone, the hands are still there, and even the blood; but what stops really when we say life is gone? As the flesh cools, lying motionless, is the me-part that is really me immediately absent,
or hovering, waiting for further instructions?
It is said…
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What people see are externals; physical attributes, profiles and position, passions and power—
or lack thereof.
People see actions and assume motivation;
people see doubt and assume weakness. What people see is not me.
I am more than my package, more than my history, more than my gifts, and
I need to be listened to.
I shouldn’t need validation, but how do I know I really exist if I don’t hear back from the universe I walk in?
Reading alone in a window seat, viewing nature from my perch, writing poetry and capturing all I see in drawings and photos, words that rhyme—I used to think that would be enough. It would be like playing cello on a deck in a wild, ethereal Alaskan wood—no one listening except the trees and sky and creatures hidden from view. Mystic communion with the world.
Contemplation is preparation—not enough just as…
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