I seek the Beloved
throughout the house,
under the furniture,
in the back of closets,
in the attic, the crawlspace.
"Where are you?" I call.
"Why do you hide from me?"
I seek the Beloved
in nature,
in the rumbling, churning storm,
the quiet of a sun-warmed beach,
beneath a golden stand of aspens.
"Where are you?" I cry.
"Why do you hide from me?"
I seek the Beloved
in sacred writing,
in tomes of wisdom,
in volumes of theology,
in poetry that lifts and enlightens.
"Where are you?" I shout.
"Why do you hide from me?"
And the Beloved answers:
"I do not hide from you.
You seek me outside,
when I am found inside.
I have always been here within you.
Stop. Breathe. Listen.
I cannot hide from you,
just as you cannot hide from me."
"O, my Beloved," I say,
"I have spent so much time
seeking what has always been
closer than my own breath.
O, my Beloved.
O, my Beloved."
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