We’re born into the chaos of humanity, taught that we need to believe in something and understand everything.

Experts in all white perfectly cleaned lab coats and telescopes

tell us of systems and natural phenomena

in fragments, trials, case studies, and findings,

so we can trust that we're enlightened,

our entire existence is sensible,

the planet explainable,

and the proof, easily replicable.

But a qualitative analysis and supported hypothesis

will never make us feel whole or complete on their own.

We are spiritual beings and metaphysical poets.

From the beginning of consciousness,

we were meant to grapple with our humanity

and the inexplicable limitlessness of our universe.

lost.



During my childhood, everything was told to me as fact.

God was introduced as a white man with a humble son

who wielded an unruly power over everything.

At some point, the organized belief became unorganized

and the rope that holds all things together began to fray at the ends

unraveling all the doubts and questions

and time-specific historical gaps.

I stumbled around the church

spilling holy wine all over my clothes

and all of a sudden felt allergic to the bread

as I'd move through the motions:

call and response,

bow to stand,

kneel to sit,

sit to stand,

chant and repeat,

for hours on end.

Skepticism filtered through my organs

and it became indigestible.

At night, when I was fast asleep, my ancestors

marked their territory in my mind as I dreamed vividly…

In the scorching hot sand, my bare feet burning,

I brushed my fingertips along dust-covered walls

where remnants of ancient spirits

whispered stories into my ears

of afterlives and cosmic alignment,

telling me of the specific points in history

when the sun and moon intersected

and light reflected to reveal

a fateful cosmic event

no conscious mind could comprehend.

I woke up with my eyes wide open.

found.

There are stories in dirt and sand

inscribed by my ancestors and mapped into my DNA,

as intangible and illusionary as the sunset,

infused deep in my bones and inherited muscle memory.

Sometimes I feel like spirituality is a distant memory,

a song that's repeated itself for a million years, and now,

sounds distorted through a busted speaker in my mind.

But still, I can hear it

as faint pieces of melody,

an accumulation of elements

kissed by the sun, which holds

the memory of infinite galaxies

that grew the plants that fed

my grandmothers

thousands of years before.

faith.

Prayer is more than a story we tell with our minds–

more than a plea or recitation…

It flows through our body,

in and then out,

with the ease of our breath,

like the way we experience a gust of wind,

it effortlessly moves through us

beyond words and feelings

and dissipates into the air.

Pressed between two palms

is the intention of our existence

the energy of all the elements

the stories of all our ancestors.

I meditate on my purpose

every morning

and my fate

in the evening

and I go to bed at night

trusting in something

resembling

spirit.