Sainthood Starts to Breathe

The fact is, you will reach outside of you for something and drag it in.
Keep it warm in some dark closet of your consciousness, nurse that thing, obsess over it.
Put it on tomorrow morning; tie it twice around your head and once around your face,
for protection, for the look of it.
You will stir it, taste it, stew yourself in it.
You will die with it clenched in your hands.

Every day I sit and watch the people walking. They move forward,
some fast, some slow, but all of them going... where?

If you ask them, you'll get stock answers.
"To work."
"To class."
"To the supermarket."

But why?
"To earn money so I can buy food for my family."
"To earn a degree so I can earn money so I can buy food for my family."
"To buy food for my family."

Yes, you think you know the where and the why, but if you stop.

* * * * * * * * *

 

You really have no idea.

 

That is when you hear the voices yelling from the bottom of the pit.

 

You dropped me, screams your childhood dream.

You lost me, screams your innocence.

You never found me, announces your soul.

 

We are walking, all of us, above a chasm.

We live our lives above it:
we are born and run wild and make love and make war
and die above it. And then they bury us in it, not knowing.

It is the saint among us who dares to lift the lid and stare down into the spaces.
It is the saint who sees with a shudder the debris smoldering in the depths.
The real saint is the one who refuses to slam the door and takes time to acknowledge

a Presence in the void.