My Spiritual Journey (human, language)

[jessxwrites89]

I'm in the process of writing a book to be self-published on Amazon. I wrote this little poem:

My Spiritual Journey

Me? I look forward to
finding my spirituality
and the spark within my heart
on an ideal afternoon,
the sun shining brightly
at the perfect distance
of a holy language and image;
I’m not alone on this journey:
birds chirp around me
on the terracotta porch;
friends and spiritual leaders guide,
talking calmly:
“With blessings—hey—curious
and sweet poet,
lift the images and words within you,”
return to the loving embrace of God.



And I wrote about the trip to buy the rug:

Sojourn (Brief) on 52nd Street

I nervously hop off of the el at 52nd Street Station,
the murals painted on homes show different nations.
“Which way is Chestnut?” I nervously squeak,
a black lady interjects, “go south and you will seek

a McDonalds on the corner. Keep straight! Good luck!”
Smiling, I down the winding stairs, with the sun tucked
behind clouds and humidity. Neighborhoods run down—
I shouldn’t be shocked, I rode the trolley around town.

I’ve always wanted a Persian rug, fragile and petite—
as the trolley embarked that Sunday on the winding streets,
I noticed a bunch of old stores that advertised them,
although the signs weathered with time, it could hold gems.

So, I’ve decided that the following Friday to walk the winding alleys,
despite my heart pounding, sweat flowing, my brain tallied—
but I would not run back, I will do this,
a beautiful rug to adorn and accentuate my room—what bliss!

I wanted to see West Philadelphia in all scariness,
buildings have seen better days, people show weariness;
it reminds me of the streets and people of Detroit,
among all the chaos and rubble, creativity and recovery adroit—

yet long bearded men dressed in kufis and thobes all say “hi, good day!
care to buy a new purse?” I ask about the street, I’m on my way,
not even a block, the point out some directions of the different stores;
whatever my taste or style, they would surely never be a bore!

The green sign alerts me to Chestnut Street,
women of all nationalities talk to me very sweet,
sitting at their stations to sell food, clothes, other ethnic goods.
Sweat runs down my face, I wish I had a hat or a hood.

Unseasonably hot September sun is too much for my skin,
a handwritten Arabic yellow sign, very worn, welcomes me in—
books, Middle Eastern fashions, incense, food and rugs;
I fall in love with the mini Persian, a double rug, the wool snug.

Blood red, golden yellow, charcoal black—it must face west,
three dollars, a steal, and free books are the best!
The clerk is a bit hard to understand, but lovely, and has sound advice,
I thank him and head back to the el after meeting people so nice

the dilapidated streets taught me, much like Detroit, and take on new meaning,
falling down homes show humanity at its worst and from the ashes gleaning
with locals telling their stories, striking up conversations, direction pointing,
laughs, smiles, a sense of catharsis when someone listens, their pain anointing.

A place I visit at night? Much like my reluctance to visit from Roseville to Detroit, NO!
Yet an adventures to see why I feared it, to buy a rug and some books show
that stepping out of a comfort zone briefly, carefully, safely, and alert is okay,
nice and bad people are everywhere, just keep aware of your surroundings, they say.

As the el pulls out of the 52nd Street Station,
I have my beautiful rug from a different nation
by my side. The murals from a youth project fly by me,
as I see the Skyscrapers grow taller of glorious Center City!



I'm just looking forward to getting the book finished - hoping by Thanksgiving!