Recently, I felt close to understanding my purpose and meaning in life. Yet, if you asked me what that exact meaning was, I couldn’t tell you. I just know I felt challenged, alive, and right where I was supposed to be. Happy, even.
A day or two later, the spark stuttered and weakened. I don’t say this with surprise. I’ve learned to try and not attach myself to any feeling, knowing that no specific one digs roots so far in that it becomes permanent.
I swing back and forth between meaningful and meaningless, between knowing things with my whole body and my whole body being a robot.
As I swing back and forth, I reach out and grab for something solid and still, fingers grasping for a stronghold. I used to be able to touch infinity, the depths of God. Now, I touch the universe, the depths unknown.
My feet plant firmly to the ground but my hands sometimes float above, as if they know something is missing. I stretch and lean into this feeling, embracing the elasticity of my faith before falling comfortably to my knees.
From there, I kneel into child’s pose. As my forehead touches the cool ground, it doubles as a prayer.