It is strange to be here. The mystery never leaves you. John O’Donohue, Irish poet
Sometimes this mystery is the white bright light that invades when I exit an airplane
ramp into a wide unknown land
foreign, vibrant and alive with the simple new and explosive presence
that surround in the keyed-up senses.
Sometimes this mystery is in the small
vital presence of
something else, someone else, close and answering
when you didn’t realize you were asking.
Sometimes this mystery is in the brief moments when what you are,
really are, reaches
out far enough
to connect to another
place, or time or person
in a way that feels like what must be
And sometimes this mystery is the only thing you can hold onto-
and even yet, it can not be held-
when your hands can grip nothing else.
Everyone has a small center where we hold our unblemished created
self to which we were born.
Where life becomes just right
for just a moment
and for just enough time-
it makes enough sense
to keep on believing.