This is not a poem, just a murmur
whose poor thoughts won't reach
the edge of the page.
In scripture, the word for Spirit is Breath.
So it is in all Wisdom tongues.
For Wisdom is Sophia,
the soul in your breathing.
When you are awake,
this inhalation is the Holy Spirit,
the sigh of the Creator in creation.
She is the Goddess who birthed the sun
when She danced in the beginning
with a deep green shadow.
And though her womb enfolds
the clustered galaxies
She whirls inside your body,
weaving awareness into flesh.
Call her the dignity
of what flows through you
when you do not try.
Call her the delight of Ruu,
the Shakti, the Qi.
Honor her by listening.
Tend her flame in your lungs
and you will permeate the earth
like fragrance in a flower.
You will become her whisper,
"Tova, Shiva, B'ishm'illa, Sweet Lord!"
Friend, please swim in the river
that pours down your dark hollow places
like wine that is saved
for the end of the wedding.
Your golden exhalation will ignite the stars
on invisible fibers of attention,
just as countless downy cotton threads
are instantly consumed by a single spark.
How do I know this?
I am breathed
by the Beloved.
Painting by Marie LoParco
a masterpiece album from Pulitzer Prize winning musician dealing with intergenerational trauma
SAND guest speaker with a taste of Sufi Whirling
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