Lord of Breathing

The wind blows where it pleases. You hear the sound thereof, but know not where it comes from, or where it goes. So it is for all who are born of the Breath. ~John 3:8

Let everything that has Breath praise the Lord. ~Psalm 150

From the moment I was born I've been learning how to breathe.

I think I'm getting this: take it in, let it go.

Not quite; try again. Don't take; receive.

Float, soul, let breath breathe you; be tide.

Not exactly; this time, do even less.

I’m not sure what breath is; I'm not sure who’s breathing.

It starts somewhere beyond this world; when you give it back, you go there.

Between one breath and another, there's a shimmering whirlpool of silence.

Here no thought rises; no world has been created.

The beginning of every breath is the formless void.

Exhale old earth, inhale new heaven; let there be light.

Let there be a thousand suns in my body.

Let this world never be one moment old.

Back at the sunset, seeds shoot fire from black soil.

Evening flings her shawl of fog on mountain shoulders.

Trembling purple wings of awareness settle on the meadow.

Under the tree of yearning, you gaze into lit distances beyond prayer.

But your mind insists that the stars are hanging on the nearest branch.

The billowing moon is a reflection of something brighter; and that a reflection of something brighter still:

A radiance only known when you turn inside, crying, 'Who?'

Every night, the same moon; but This light always new.

A leaf floats where wind goes, flutter-falls where wind dies.

Everything moved by another, who move you?

Lord of Breathing, where do you come from?

I hear the mysterious sound; is it your name?

Or do your lips name me?