Like the first man to stand upon solid ground, I am composed of dust.
But it is not simple dust—it is complex in its stirring.
Its origins come from afar, amongst the blaze and fire of the cosmos.
Cooked to a perfect grain, it is filtered and tried by the wind and the currents of the earth until it is broken down to a magnificent realization.
It is dust that makes me—star dust.
I am naked below the starlight.
From the elements of fire within the giant star, I’m created.
I want to be dust in the gardener’s hands.
I wish to be a cloud of finely powdered earth in the air of creation.
Crushed to the simplest of my substance I can understand who I am and what is to become of me.
No matter how long I may live, or how high I may fly, I will never touch life more than through the humility of my soul’s dust.
I feel the earth move in the garden. All around me, life is stored. In the insignificance of dirt, I can create my way of life. Earth is not the death of my spiritual soil; it is the conception of it.
Under the sunshine, I feel the gardener reach into my earth to amend my soil, to remove the unwanted things. When he concludes, my dust is new and young.
Crushed to my beginning, my ground is broken into a million pieces. In the granules of my simple dust, my emotions mix with the sun and the rain.
There in the unsown ground, I can feel all my laughter and sense my darkest pain.
There, in the garden, I can see my father, my mother, my sister, and my older twin brothers, in truth.
There in the dust of faith and love, I can live as I am.