If I were…

This poem came from a place of curiosity, a childlike wondering about existence itself. I remember feeling like I was floating outside of myself as I wrote it, as though I was watching the dance of creation from a distance, asking simple but profound questions: If I were to walk the earth, how would I come to be? What would it mean to exist?

It felt like slipping into the mind of the soul before birth, imagining how it chooses to enter form: eyes drawn on a face, legs to walk, hands to touch. Writing this was humbling because it reminded me how miraculous embodiment is. We take so much of life for granted; gravity holding us here, air filling our lungs, the ground beneath our feet, and yet all of it is an exquisite orchestration.

The lesson of this poem is that existence itself is sacred, no matter how messy or painful it feels. The very fact that we are here, breathing, means we are participating in something extraordinary: consciousness choosing form. This realization helped me see life as an experiment in love, a divine exploration where even suffering has meaning.

The distortion it helped dissolve was the idea that life’s challenges mean something is wrong, or that pain is proof of separation. Instead, I began to see that every moment, joyful or difficult, is part of a larger picture, like light and shadow shaping a masterpiece. This poem invited me to see myself as both artist and artwork, both creator and creation, all playing together in a great game.

“If I Were…” feels like a meditation, but also a confession of awe. It’s me admitting that I don’t fully understand this mystery we call life, but I trust it. I trust that every detail, every sensation, every tide of emotion is part of something whole and loving. Writing this felt like bowing to the miracle of being alive, even in confusion.