I wanted so badly to feel

or at least believe

in that dark sanctuary

made holy with tall candles,

pictures of saints.

I closed my eyes,

squeezed tighter,

knelt on splintered rail,

repeating silent words

like heal and open,

waiting for a miracle

to twinkle through me,

some sort of sign

declaring sanctity.

 

But the only evidence

lay outside my soul:

pilgrims genuflecting,

dropping to their knees,

even raising their hands,

all appearing

to feel and believe

something I could not.

Even standing over

the well of sacred dirt

watching everyone else

fill plastic bags,

rub bodies with dust,

then finally sifting it

through my own fingers,

no flash of light,

no sparkly feeling.

 

Only after pushing open

heavy doors,

feeling sunlight

lay hands all over me,

hearing birds praise

the cloudless sky,

smelling sage and pinon,

peace

healing

faith

arrived on a path

which is not right

or wrong,

just different.