I am so incredibly imperfect.

I buy sage and never burn it.

I sit in silence, legs folded

Until they go numb and my phone buzzes.

I hear the calls of beauty, of harmony, of wisdom,

But I don’t know how to answer.

I am messy.

The curls of my being unravel

In a maze of tangled clothes, crumbs, and jumbled ideas.

I imagine the peace of orderliness

And fall into my unmade bed

Cradled by the familiar comfort of

Half-read books, half-written notes, half-finished dreams.

I sense the presence of a greater joy

A greater meaning.

But I don’t know how to rip off the layers of

Doubt and disappoint so that my raw skin

Can bathe unobstructed in the pure light of existence.

I am complicated, in my simple human way.

I wonder at the ways in which other people are complicated, or not.

How some of them are so clean and crisp and clear

At least, that’s how they appear.

Maybe we are all swimming in a muddied pool

And fool ourselves to think that washing away the mud

Will bring us any closer to the purity we imagine

Could award us with ultimate knowledge.

Maybe the deeper knowledge—which is no knowledge at all

Just essence of being

Is buried deep in that mud

Buried deep in those crumpled piles of sheets and blankets and dirty laundry

Hidden in the to-do lists that never made it onto paper

Lying amongst the dust on that shelf strewn with half-burnt candles, folded cards, and worn crystals.

I feel my heartbeat in my chest. In my neck. In my wrists.

I feel the flow of warm air leave my nostrils.

I feel the ache in my throat, the ache that wants to name things and know things

And voice things and find soothing comfort in those names.

I will stay with this feeling when I can.

This messy, un-Goddessy, un-enlightened, living feeling.

I will sit with the imperfection.

The novelty of being with this body

Electrified by whatever Soul or Spark ignites it.

Maybe, some days, I’ll make the bed.