I want to be a whole person.

I said this while sitting on my
therapist’s couch
one clear, autumn day.
I couldn’t explain to her
exactly what I meant,
only this was the
truest
expression of my
insides
in words.

That was several years ago.
I haven’t seen her in a long time.

What is my truest expression now?

I’m certain it still has to do with wholeness.

We are taught we can
divide our way to wholeness.

Sheer off the undesirable parts of ourselves,
the ones that cause discomfort with their
messy, messy truth.

Divide ourselves from others who don’t
look like us
or think like us
or fall in line like we were taught.

Divide, segregate, deny, shun.

And if we do, if we listen to the external,
self-appointed authorities
out there,
we will possibly,
one day,
attain the ideal.

The ideal what?

The ideal
cookie-cutter,
uniform vision
of success,
spiritual or otherwise,
as they define it.

Then we will be wholesome,
acceptable,
holy in their eyes.

All that’s required is to ignore
that still,
small,
voice,
deep within,
whispering:
wholeness
can’t be found out there,
can’t be defined by them.

You cannot divide your way to wholeness.

Turn and listen to that voice.
Gather up the discarded petals
you dutifully left trailing
behind you as they watched.

Push through the double-dividing doors
and run,
hair-in-the-wind,
into the meadow of your own
knowing,
arms wide-stretched,
heart echoing:

You already know,
you already are.