Beautiful, Not Enough

 

“Beautiful, Not Enough”

I look back now at roads I rode blind,

Every truth I chased already designed.

Every faith, every rule, every way I’d roam,

Were branches reaching back toward the same home.

I drank from wells I didn’t yet name,

Called it wisdom, called it luck, called it pain.

Now I see the root beneath every belief,

And the beauty of it all cuts sharp like grief.

Because knowing the source don’t quiet the thirst,

It just shows you the hunger was there first.

It’s gorgeous to see how the pieces align,

Still my heart keeps knocking, “Not this—something fine.”

I write from the ego, loud, cracked, and proud,

And from the small whisper that won’t shout.

Two hands on the wheel, same road, same flame,

One wants the credit, one erases the name.

The travels don’t end, they deepen the ask,

They slow down the steps but harden the task.

Passion grows steady, patience grows wide,

Persistence is born where the tears don’t hide.

So I bless every step that didn’t feel right,

Every long night spent learning to wait for the Light.

It’s beautiful—yes—but beauty won’t do,

Till the goal of creation is lived through the we, not the you.

Beginning In Lo Lishma

 Beginning in Lo Lishma

I came to the work with pockets full of need,

Looking for comfort, reward, and a place to succeed.

I opened the book with myself in the frame,

And called it devotion while feeding my name.

I learned for the light, for the calm, for the gain,

For answers to soften the edges of pain.

I dressed up my ego in verses and prayer,

And told myself holiness lived over there.

I worked for protection, for heaven, for fear,

For a future reward that would finally be clear.

I said “for the Creator,” but deep in my chest,

I was measuring progress by how I felt best.

Then the work kept working and wouldn’t comply,

Each reason I leaned on would rot and run dry.

The sweetness went bitter, the fire went cold,

And every why cracked what I thought I still held.

The mirror got honest, the ground fell away,

Even “spiritual pleasure” had nothing to say.

I saw every motive I tried to defend

Was just self-love dressed up as a means to an end.

And there, in the wreckage of reasons gone thin,

A quieter question began working within:

Not what do I get and not who will I be,

But why am I doing this—if not for Thee?

Not for reward, not to rise, not to know,

Not to feel light or escape from the low.

Only because You commanded the way,

And I choose to be governed by that—come what may.

No promise of comfort, no payment in sight,

Just faith above reason, walking blind into night.

Not because it makes sense, not because it feels true,

But because You are Cause—and I answer to You.

Lo Lishma did its job, it carried me here,

Dragged all my reasons into the clear.

Now stripped of the self I kept trying to save,

I stand with one reason I never once gave:

Not me at the center, not profit or gain,

But You as the source, and Your will as the chain.

This isn’t perfection, it’s surrender made real—

Where the work stops being mine,

and You turn the wheel.