Ancient Soul, Mortal Scars
I do not think of myself as pure.
I’ve been broken too many times.
The illusion of innocence dissolved too early.
I’ve followed so many detours.
Still, the sacred lives in me,
Flows through me, visits me.
I am no less divine for having
Chosen to attend forbidden feasts.
A warrior’s path is often dark.
Twisted. Filthy. Brutal.
Anger grows in brambles of fear.
Good and evil bleed into each other.
My life is a flawed painting,
A sculpture with few polished edges.
Raw. Strange. Wild.
Rebellious. Unpredictable.
But stars grace the inky night.
Art is born of pain.
The light of my ancient soul
Shines through these mortal scars.
Original writing by Katrina Ariel.
This poem was inspired by someone’s off-hand comment on social media. They said something about things being clear to the pure of heart. And I think everyone is pure on some level—we’re all divine beings, even those who have forgotten this truth.
But at the same time, our human experience is messy. We make All The Mistakes. We hate ourselves for them, sometimes, and forgiveness can be elusive. We hold grudges that only hurt ourselves, or bury fears because we don’t know how to face them.
I don’t think the ideals that are placed on us by any outside source (religion, society, etc.) are helpful when they result in guilt and shame. Who am I to say that one person is worthy and another is not? I don’t know their stories, I don’t know the hardships they’ve seen.
I’d like to share a couple of lines that ultimately got edited out of this poem:
Perseverance is honed from hardship.
Mistakes cut wisdom from the stone of ignorance.
As a recovering perfectionist, I have a hard time accepting myself when I make mistakes, yet as a mother, I know this is how we learn. This is how we grow.
I remain convinced that no matter how dirty and lost we get in our human adventure, no matter how hidden our essence becomes, our souls, our spirits, will never be less pure than the clearest, brightest star.
Top photo by John Fowler/Unsplash
