Breathwork 1

Breathwork was never a habit, never a routine. But I have moved through it in cycles, in waves of practice and pause. Each time I return, within three perhaps six days, something shifts. The landscape of my dreams transforms. A quiet unfolding, a whisper of change.

It is not the quality of sleep that changes, I have always slept well, effortlessly. Blessed in that way. But when I breathe with intention, something within stirs. 

In my search for self-discovery, I met a Sufi. He agreed to guide me. Through his guidance, I touched the edges of something both extraordinary and utterly ordinary.

I am no psychologist, no scientist. But I am wary—wary of how meaning is shaped by belief, by culture, by the unseen threads of the mind. I know how easily longing can colour perception, how desire can turn the mundane into the mystical.

Still, I give breath space. Because breath does not merely sustain the living, it expands it. It stretches the edges of existence, no matter how I choose to interpret the unfolding.

A fire,
hidden beneath layers of thought,
breathing in shades of green,
is tugging softly
at the quiet ache,
for the greening of Hildegard.