Soul is one of those words that is used quite frequently in different ways without being clearly defined. We can mean it in the metaphysical sense of some quality of being that transcends the body after death and transmigrates to heaven or to another human life. Or we can mean it in the sense of a depth of character; a warmth of being — soulfulness. 

The Buddha didn’t think it was useful to speculate about the metaphysical status of concepts like the soul. He rejected the Vedantic notion of the atman — a transcendent self — in favor of seeing the self as an illusion arising out of the aggregation of our moment-to-moment experience.

One day while contemplating the notion of soul, I wrote this poem:

Soul
 
That sense of place arising
from the resurrection of a word,
from death to connection.
A word, this breath,
this glimpse of the possible and miraculous
that is now.
Unfurling towards this moment,
making everything real and everything worthwhile.
 
This word is my signature,
vouchsafed in my heart.
Never to be spoken aloud,
or in silent conversation.
Only to be lived.