The Ones Who Pass Through
The Sacred Inbetween
They arrive unannounced,
these ancient guests
who slip through the cracks
of our carefully constructed days.
They pass between us
like whispered secrets,
like yawns in waiting rooms,
like the scent of rain
before the storm breaks.
Grief comes heavy-footed,
settles in your chest
like stones in still water,
makes its home in the hollow
beneath your ribs.
Joy dances in sideways.
A child bursting through screen doors,
tracking mud and sunlight,
refusing to wipe its feet
on your pristine expectations.
Anger burns bright and sudden,
a wildfire
consuming everything in its path,
leaving behind
the fertile ash of clarity.
Watch—
how your sorrow
becomes my tears,
how my laughter
lifts your shoulders,
how fear spreads
through crowded rooms
faster than news,
faster than light.
We are not islands.
We are vessels,
temporary temples
where these spirits
come to rest,
come to teach,
come to transform
before moving on
to the next willing heart.
So receive them with reverence.
Even the dark ones.
Even the ones that shake you.
Even the ones that refuse
to leave quietly.
They are not your masters—
you are not their slave.
You are the sacred inbetween
where spirit learns
to be human,
where the invisible
puts on flesh
for just a moment,
just long enough
to remind you:
You are alive.
You are feeling.
You are holy ground
where heaven
meets earth
in the cathedral
of your beating heart.
Let them come.
Let them go.
Let them teach you
what only embodied spirits
can know.