The way is calling me to take of my shoes,
not to humble me,
but to keep me honest
about the distance between what i believe
and what I am willing to feel.

So I walk barefoot,
and the dust rises to meet me,
small circles lifting with every step,
hanging a moment in the light
before they fall,
dancing not because they mean to,
but because motion is the only way
dust knows how to pray.

The sole learns before the soul does.
A stone presses its hard truth
into the part of me that touches earth,
and I embrace the grit because some things are only understood from underneath.

I am not walking toward enlightenment.
I am wearing it into the arches of my feet,
the outer path and the inner ache
rubbing against each other
until they become one.

Remember you are dust, someone once said,
and so I seek oneness with this least regarded thing.
Dust whispers catch the light and turn,
we trace a shape across the road
slowly settles together we become part of the path.

The path does not reward the ones who grip it hardest.
so let your hands go loose,
stop carrying the map like a cross
and feel the weight carrying nothing.

There is grace in this dust, this path and in each step,
Let each step rise and settle
Let the path rise and fall
Let the dust dance and rest
until it is a single liturgy and the sole and soul become one.