I live on a thin seam of Grace,
On a narrow ridge
I know Grace.
Deeply and profoundly
Yet, I don’t feel chosen.
I am ordinary flesh and breath.
You would pass me without pause,
never sensing the way Grace leans close to my ear.
Knowledge like this is lonely.
Who could hold it without fear?
Who would not call it delusion,
or burn it alive in the bright fire of opinion?
I was the quiet one
in a family of seekers.
My brothers were mountains of Vedic discipline.
Architects of stillness.
They built silence brick by brick.
Walking the ancient roads of meditation,
following the prescribed path.
They found luminosity at the end.
So perhaps the body knows a way
the mind can only practice.
As for me—
I am as undone as anyone.
Only this is the difference:
I know I am being breathed
by a living Grace,
warm and unmistakable,
moving me from the inside.
I see the signs now.
The way Grace opens, then closes.
I follow when it calls.
I stop when it goes quiet.
Sometimes I wait.
Drink coffee
and let the silence finish its sentence.
All of this
is only circling the truth.
What I mean to say is;
thank you.
Thank you, Divine Grace,
for living me at all.
