A Rare Visitor

My soul feels the soft, quiet magic today.

Its visits to my body are elusive, rare
and always unpredictable. 

It's the kind of hopeful, peaceful magic
that compels me to write poetry and that
swells in my whole being,
just making me excited
about something
I can't quite put my finger on. 

It's akin to being swaddled in God's wonder
and seeing past everything as I normally see it,
looking out at the world
as if it is on the other side of a window I am sitting at,
inside the safety and warm home of the spiritual.

It's a feeling that holds me,
bids me to dwell in this feeling,
this experience. 

Just be.
That is all I can do,
all I want to do,
all I am being asked to do. 

The world of people rushing around me
with tasks and deadlines and goals and agendas
seems foreign and irrelevant. 

Urgency is absent -- this is not a sensation that compels me to action.
It is the deepest experience of just dwelling
in peace, love, wonder, and the reality
(which, on account of how little we actually
trust in and dwell in it,
is often a surreality)
that nothing is ultimately critical
because we are not the ones holding anything.
God holds it all.