Everything is Spiritual but Unrealized

Unseen, yet it breathes —
Spirit wears the skin of dust,
Light hides in shadow.

There is nothing in existence that is not spiritual—
I say this not as a philosopher,
nor as a seeker clutching at borrowed words,
but as one who has stood
in the middle of silence so wide
that even thought bowed its head
and dissolved into light.

I have seen the mundane turn mystical
in the quiet choreography of dust particles
dancing through a golden shaft of morning sun,
each one alive with presence,
each one whispering, I am too divine.

The cup of tea on my table,
its rising steam shaped like memory—
even that is spirit.
The cracked wooden edge, the chipped rim,
the hand that holds it trembling slightly—
all of it is a hymn
unheard by the ears,
but known by the soul.

There was a time I sought divinity
in temples, in scriptures,
in words sanctified by repetition—
but the moment I stopped seeking,
I found spirit sitting on my doorstep
in the guise of a stray dog,
licking its paw with such devotion
that I wept without reason.

I had mistaken spirituality
for an exclusive chamber of light
reserved for the purified,
the disciplined, the chosen—
but the truth is embarrassingly simple:
nothing is outside it.
Nothing.

Even the fly that drowns
in the honey left on a spoon
is a fragment of the sacred.
Even the spoon, cold and stainless,
reflecting my weary face,
knows the mystery of form and formlessness.


---

There was a day I walked by the river,
its waters restless, swollen with monsoon rage.
I thought of anger—
how human it felt, how base—
yet the river said, I too am spirit,
only unrealized in your eyes.
And then I saw—
how even destruction is prayer
when you look deep enough into its flow.

The storm,
the breaking,
the ash of a burned forest,
the cry of a child who has lost his mother—
there is pain in them, yes,
but underneath pain,
an invisible pulse of the divine persists,
waiting to be recognized,
not glorified,
but acknowledged.


---

Every time I close my eyes,
I see galaxies of unawakened truths
orbiting the small sun of my awareness.
I realize how little of life I’ve truly lived—
how much I’ve only skimmed over,
thinking it ordinary.

But the ordinary is the altar,
and I, unknowingly, have been kneeling before it all along.

The smell of rain on parched earth—
that is a psalm older than religion.
The wrinkled hand of an old man
reaching out for balance—
that is prayer incarnate.
The rust on a forgotten gate,
the heartbeat of a sleeping child,
the brief flicker of doubt in a saint’s eyes—
all spiritual,
all divine,
all parts of the infinite play
disguised as imperfection.


---

I used to think spirituality
was the art of ascension—
a ladder rising beyond this world,
where flesh and flaw
were things to overcome.
Now I know:
it is the art of descent—
the grace of sinking fully
into what already is.

To touch the ground
and know it is holy,
to hold sorrow
and know it is light in disguise,
to breathe and feel
that the air itself
is love exhaling through me—
that is realization.

I do not pray anymore;
I listen.
I do not chant mantras;
I breathe their meaning
in the pauses between moments.

Every thought that visits
is a pilgrim on its own journey.
Every mistake I make
is a teaching in unfinished form.
Every doubt I harbor
is the shadow that allows realization to have depth.


---

There is nothing in existence that is not spiritual—
not even disbelief.
The skeptic too walks the sacred path,
though his lantern is reason
and his god wears the mask of inquiry.
I have learned to bow to him too.

I have bowed to the beggar
who curses the sky in hunger,
to the lover who slams the door in heartbreak,
to the addict trembling in withdrawal,
for each one is a sermon
delivered in the language of struggle.

Spirit hides where we least expect it—
in grief’s heavy cloak,
in laughter too wild to contain,
in the pauses between arguments
where silence sneaks in like grace.


---

I once saw a leaf fall
and thought of death.
But the leaf said, Look closer.
And I did.
I saw the air cradling it gently,
I saw the soil waiting like a mother,
I saw the unseen life preparing to rise again.
How can death exist,
when even decay is a continuation of devotion?

If everything is spirit,
then the illusion of separation
is the only unreality there is.
The unrealized is not false—
it is simply asleep.
And I am too, most days—
sleepwalking through the sacred,
calling it routine.


---

Sometimes I wonder
how many mornings I have wasted
chasing enlightenment,
while enlightenment was busy
breathing through the hum of the refrigerator,
through the soft sigh of a curtain swaying with wind,
through the call of the street vendor
selling guavas in the lane—
each vibration, each sound,
another pulse of the same divine heart
I’ve been trying to find elsewhere.

There is no elsewhere.
There is only here.
There is only now.

Even this sentence,
as I form it in thought,
is spirit experiencing itself
through the rhythm of words.
Even my confusion,
my pause,
my longing—
they are not stains on the mirror
but patterns of reflection.


---

If I were to strip away all meaning,
all interpretation, all philosophy,
and stand naked in the essence of being,
I would still feel the same pulse—
the same trembling truth—
that nothing is non-spiritual.

The rock that refuses to move,
the thorn that pricks,
the machine that hums without soul—
all are fragments of the infinite consciousness,
differently aware, differently manifest.

Perhaps realization
is not about turning the ordinary divine,
but remembering that it always was.
Perhaps the real journey
is not from ignorance to wisdom,
but from forgetfulness to remembrance.


---

I remember once,
in the middle of despair so deep
that even hope refused to visit,
I whispered into the dark,
“If there is Spirit,
why can’t I feel it?”
And a voice—not from outside,
but from the stillness within—
answered softly,
“You cannot feel it
because you are it.”

That was the beginning of my undoing.
That was the day I stopped being a seeker
and began to be the sought.
Since then, I have found spirit
in the broken and the beautiful alike—
in the begonia’s bloom,
in the bruised apple,
in the mirror that no longer flatters,
in the silence between friends
who no longer need to speak.


---

There is nothing in existence that is not spiritual,
but realization is a slow unfolding—
a dawn that rises in gradients,
a remembering that takes lifetimes.
Sometimes it comes as a flash—
a tear that falls for no reason,
a moment of awe so still
that even time forgets to move.
Sometimes it comes as a grind—
the long, patient chiseling of the ego
until humility finally learns to see.

Every realization
is spirit realizing itself
through me,
through you,
through everything that breathes and doesn’t.

And even when I forget—
when I lose sight,
when I return to noise and numbness—
the truth remains unaltered:
existence does not stop being divine
simply because I fail to notice.


---

Tonight, as I sit beneath a sky
where stars blink like ancient teachers,
I smile.
The wind moves gently,
and I realize—
even the movement of air
is a form of worship.
The silence between us and the universe
is not empty;
it is full—
overflowing with unseen presence,
with love so vast it has no name.

Everything is spiritual but unrealized—
and realization,
perhaps,
is nothing but the slow softening of the eyes
until they can see again
what they once knew by heart.

Until they can whisper,
without hesitation,
without proof,
without fear—

I am that.
You are that.
All this is that.
And that,
ever-present,
ever-patient,
is Spirit itself.

All is spirit’s breath,
Even silence hums with love —
I rest, and it shines.