A Prayer the 99% Don’t Know They’re Saying
We heard there’s a Torah, rules carved in the sky,
Six hundred thirteen ways to live, or to die.
Two kinds, they say—some yes, some no,
But nobody taught us how the inside should go.
They told us, “Do good. Don’t cross the line.”
“Be careful. Be proper. Be holy. Be fine.”
So we learned how to stop, how to shut, how to hide,
But no one explained what to do with the fire inside.
Two hundred forty-eight say, Stand up and give,
Move your heart forward, choose how you live.
Three sixty-five say, Don’t take for yourself,
Hold back the ego, put it back on the shelf.
But here’s where we stumble, here’s where we freeze—
We stop doing wrong… then stop doing anything.
We call it control, we call it restraint,
But slowly our color all turns into paint.
We withdraw from the fight, withdraw from the mess,
Withdraw from the love that demands our “yes.”
We don’t steal, don’t shout, don’t cross the line—
But we also don’t give, don’t risk, don’t shine.
We sit there thinking, “At least I’m clean,”
While our heart grows distant, quiet, unseen.
No harm, no sin, no obvious crime—
Just a life untouched by connection or time.
They call it adhesion—clinging to what’s real,
Not escaping the world, but learning to feel.
Not floating away, not hiding in law,
But loving through limits, with awe and with flaw.
Because stopping desire was never the goal,
The goal was to aim it, to give it a soul.
If restraint makes you smaller, colder, alone,
That’s not holiness—that’s fear wearing a crown.
So here’s the prayer we never learned how to say:
“Teach me to stop taking—but not walk away.
Teach me to hold back—but still stay near.
Teach me to love without using or fear.”
Let my “don’t” guard my heart, not lock it tight.
Let my “do” bring warmth, not ego or might.
Let my silence be chosen, not born from retreat.
Let my steps move toward others, not back to my seat.
If I’ve been calling withdrawal ‘being wise,’
Open my eyes, Creator—gently, not hard.
I don’t want to be right while my heart disappears.
I want adhesion that shows up in years.
Not above life.
Not outside the room.
But inside the struggle, where love learns to bloom.
Amen—
not from the mouth,
but from the place that still wants to belong.
