Where Am I
I am still looking for purpose,
the silent friend who walks beside me
while I boil water for tea,
while I fold laundry still warm from the sun,
while I answer messages, I barely remember sending.
I am still looking for you
like a child crying for their mother’s touch
palms open in the dark,
certain that comfort exists
even when I cannot feel it.
I wake each morning
waiting for the sun to rise in the East again
to remember its ancient agreement with the horizon,
to stop startling me
by rising in the West of my own confusion.
Because lately
everything feels reversed.
I overthink my breathing.
I overthink my calling.
I measure my steps as if purpose
is grading my performance.
I am in the forbidden garden again,
barefoot among the thorns,
wondering how I betrayed myself
how I mistook urgency for destiny,
how I traded quiet knowing
for loud ambition.
I stand at the sink washing dishes
and wonder if going left or right,
yes or no,
now or later,
will lead me to your secret place
or deeper into the maze
I built from my own thoughts.
Around me, doubts gather like morning fog.
What I know flickers like light through curtains.
What I do not know stretches wide as an ocean
that refuses to name its shore.
I question God and the Ancestors
while staring at the ceiling at night,
asking them to redraw the missing parts of this map
the one I have been holding too firmly,
creases pressed deep from folding and unfolding,
searching for answers
that do not reveal themselves by force.
Where am I
in this turning of seasons?
Am I winter root conserving strength
or impatient seed clawing at frozen soil?
I have lost myself in the chase
scrolling, planning, drafting, deleting,
trying to engineer revelation.
I have forgotten what it is like
to simply sit in the sunlight
without asking it for direction.
Find me.
Not in applause.
Not in achievement.
But in the quiet rhythm of sweeping floors,
watering plants,
walking without calculating distance.
I am here,
waiting for purpose to raise her hand
like the first star at twilight
clear, unmistakable,
pointing me in the right direction.
Yet maybe
the sun does not need to be instructed.
Maybe it has always known how to rise in the East.
Maybe it is I
who must learn again
how to turn toward it.
Where am I?
Am I storm or shoreline?
Seed or soil?
Compass or wanderer?
Where am I going
if the direction I seek
is not a place
but a way of standing
still enough
to feel the earth turning beneath me?
