The Breath that Lives: A Body Practice for Those Who Do Not Pray

What is it like to not pray?
A dove without wings.
A lute without strings.
And a sky without stars.

The midbar is my mouth.
When it opens, there is nothing
But dryness and dull aching.

But there is something forming.
A flood rising in the dark of my lungs. 

The tide, she whispers:

Ruakh hayyim

The spirit
Moves here.
Quiet and dampened.

But alas,
She lives.

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