Middle Line of Nothing

 “Middle Line or Nothing”

I walked the right, clean hands, bowed head,

Gave thanks for crumbs, called hunger “fed.”

I served with fear, I praised His name,

But never touched His living flame.

I walked the left, my eyes burned bright,

Truth like fire in dead of night.

I saw His plan, I knew His aim,

But wisdom naked turned to shame.

Right says, “Give—don’t ask to feel.”

Left says, “Take—this truth is real.”

Both were loud, both felt so true,

Both alone just split me in two.

The heart cracked open, bled the lie,

“Pick a side or surely die.”

But Heaven whispered, low and thin,

“I dwell where both are braided in.”

Not mercy alone, not truth by force,

Not holy deeds without the Source.

The King is crowned where lines agree,

Where love clothes light responsibly.

No glory shown in empty hands,

No throne revealed in broken plans.

His honor shines when hearts align,

Hochma dressed in Hassadim.

So I don’t run, I don’t divide,

I stand where opposites collide.

I hold the dark, I hold the flame,

And bless His Name through joy and pain.

This is the work — no borrowed light,

No silent right, no reckless sight.

The Torah lives where both entwine,

Middle Line — or nothing shines.

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HEBREW 

קו ימין בלי אור — חסד בלי חיים

קו שמאל בלי לב — חכמה בלי רחמים

רק באמצע מתגלה המלך

רק כששניהם כאחד — נשלם התיקון

לא די לתת, לא די לראות

בלי לב מלובש — האור נשרף

התורה מחברת ימין ושמאל

ושם כבוד הבורא נחשף

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SPANISH 

Derecha sin verdad se vuelve fría,

Izquierda sin amor quema y vacía.

No hay gloria en partes rotas del querer,

Solo en el centro nace el Rey.

Sabiduría vestida de piedad,

Luz con cuidado, fuerza con bondad.

Ahí se revela Su voluntad,

En línea media — verdad total.

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RUSSIAN 

Без милосердия мудрость — яд,

Без истины добро — лишь взгляд.

Он раскрыт не в крайних словах,

А там, где оба живут в сердцах.

Средняя линия — не компромисс,

А свет, что выдержал вес небес.

Там слава Творца становится явной,

Где свет и любовь соединены правильно.

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CLOSING 

Brothers, we stand — not right, not left,

But where the heart is stripped of self.

No borrowed fire, no holy mask,

Just one desire — to crown Him fast.

Not me, not you — one single plea,

That He be seen through unity.

This is the path the sages knew,

Middle Line — made real in you.

Understanding None (One Man, One Heart). from the Zohar

Understanding None (One Man, One Heart)

We hear the words “understanding none,”

The mind goes dark, the heart gets stunned.

The Zohar laughs at what I know,

And strips me naked, soft and slow.

“Not by the mind, not by the brain,”

Truth only enters through the pain.

What reason builds, the Light must break,

For unity is not a thought to take.

Showing us how to become one,

Not by winning—by being undone.

One man, one heart, one soul made clear,

Only when self disappears.

I swear I’m far, I swear I’m late,

But distance is a lie I state.

“Near or far is all the same,”

When all events come from His Name.

The Zohar says, “Look not above,”

The ladder starts in friend-to-love.

The Creator hides between our cracks,

In every slight, in every lack.

I curse the friend, then beg for Light,

Hate erupts right in the fight.

And there He stands—silent, exact,

Writing mercy through my act.

“Who sees division sees concealment,”

Every judgment signs my sentence.

The world is shattered by my sight,

Unity waits behind the fight.

No prayer is clean, no heart is pure,

That’s why the method must endure.

He breaks me daily, hand in glove,

So I’ll choose faith—above my love.

I never knew how close, how near,

Till ego screamed and He was clear.

The Zohar burns, but not to harm—

It melts the self into the One.

So take my mind, I’ll keep the Ten,

Take my pride—just let me bend.

From “understanding none” I rise,

One heart revealed behind closed eyes.

The Rivers of Binah

Before the rivers ever dared to run,

Malchut stood naked, nowhere to run.

Every want screamed, “Fill me now,”

But nothing answered — not then, not how.

She reached for Light with filthy hands,

Took what she could, broke every command.

Called it wisdom, called it fate,

But every grab only deepened the hate.

Pleasure burned quick, then left a scar,

Another empty night, another bar.

Prayers turned hollow, lips learned lies,

Asking for heaven with wolfish eyes.

Then came the stop — the brutal freeze,

“No more receiving for self,” she decrees.

A blade to the heart, a wall to the soul,

Restriction hit hard — took total control.

No light, no warmth, no holy sound,

Just silence thick, crushing, profound.

The ego howled, kicked, cursed the night,

“Better to die than give up this fight.”

That’s when the crying finally broke,

Not for reward, not for a smoke.

A prayer rose raw, stripped of disguise,

“Teach me to give — or let me die.”

Only then did the rivers begin,

Not rushing in — but flowing within.

Binah leaned down, gentle but firm,

Showing Malchut a different term.

Not “take and live,” but “live to give,”

Not “prove you’re right,” but “let others live.”

Hassadim wrapped the shattered need,

Teaching the vessel how to receive.

Now rivers are flowing — measured, clean,

Binah is showing what mercy means.

Malchut receives just what she can send,

Light passes through her — not to her end.

And that’s the miracle, quiet and true:

Heaven descends when the self says “through.”

The river doesn’t drown the land,

It makes Malchut like Binah — hand in hand.

Living In a Dream

We work and live inside a dream,

Nothing here is what it seems.

Thoughts walk in and call me “me,”

Like I signed them silently.

Love shows up with blood on hands,

Hate pretends it understands.

Joy arrives then slips away,

Leaves a bill I still must pay.

I wake up tired, go to work,

Smile clean, but doubt still lurks.

Bills, regrets, old words replayed,

Every move already staged.

I fight my thoughts like they’re my own,

Defend a self I’ve never known.

Win a round, then lose the war,

Same damn thoughts knock at the door.

Then something cracks — not loud, not bright,

Just a whisper in the night:

“These thoughts aren’t yours — they pass through you,

Like weather does, like winds that move.”

The pain is real, the tears are true,

But even those are given too.

The dream don’t break when you see this part —

You wake inside it, heart to heart.

I don’t escape, I don’t run free,

I learn who’s running through me.

And in that truth — so stripped, so bare —

I find a Hand that’s always there.

Strong In my Ego Weak in My Hands

“Strong in My Ego, Weak in My Hands”

I said I wanted You,

but I wanted me more.

Said “all for Heaven,”

counted receipts on the floor.

I talked about love,

while stepping on friends,

Called it “discernment,”

hid knives in the ends.

I read all the books,

quoted line after line,

But my heart stayed closed,

said “later,” not “mine.”

I wanted bestowal

as an upgrade, a perk,

A ribbon on ego,

not death to my work.

Then You broke my legs

right under my pride,

Let Pharaoh laugh

while I swallowed the lie.

I pushed.

I prayed.

I worked till I bled.

And somehow I sank

even deeper instead.

Every good deed

reeked of reward,

Every prayer

had me at the core.

Friends looked like mirrors

I couldn’t stand,

Each one exposing

the rot in my hand.

That’s when I learned

what “weak” really means—

Not tired muscles,

but shattered routines.

Weak is when love

is no longer a choice,

When without You

there is no inner voice.

Weak is when life

feels colder than death,

When Kedusha won’t enter

the lungs of your breath.

And strong—

Strong was my ego,

my logic, my plan,

Strong was my mouth

saying “I understand.”

So You did the miracle

no hero survives:

You handed my strength

to the weak in my life.

You let the few cries

break the many excuses,

Let purity win

where knowledge abuses.

You showed me my sin

with surgical care,

Not to crush me—

to prove You were there.

Now I don’t ask for luxury,

titles, or light—

Just don’t let me live

without You in sight.

If bestowal doesn’t come

I am already dead,

So take this heart,

break it—

and make it instead.

No Spies IN The Market

NO SPIES IN THE MARKET

I walk out whole from a private gate,

One King inside—no room for debate.

But step in the market, the noise comes fast,

Spies clock my future, audit my past.

They whisper, “What’s in it? Why give it away?”

They tally my loss at the end of the day.

They quote me truth but poison the aim,

Dress ego in logic, call fear by my name.

They spy on the heart like merchants of war,

Measure the Light like it’s bought in a store.

“Where’s the feeling? The proof? The sign?”

They sell me delay and call it divine.

Hanukkah comes with a jar cracked thin,

No taste, no thrill, no guaranteed win.

Just oil enough for a stubborn stand,

Faith above reason—match in my hand.

I light it outside where the market roars,

Where ego trades futures and locks the doors.

Not to feel holy, smart, or correct—

But to burn one thought that demands respect.

The spy screams loud, “This makes no sense!”

I don’t argue back—I don’t mount defense.

I light and I act without asking why,

And the spy goes hungry—no deal to buy.

The market stays loud, the legs still shake,

Desire still wants what it thinks I should take.

But one small flame with no demand to win

Turns spies into silence—no place to sit in.

No spies in the Light, no wage to claim,

No Sitra Achra where love won’t bargain its name.

Just friends in the dark, oil running low,

And a flame that says, “Bestow—then go.”

The Split That Prays

The Split That Prays

by William S. Becker

As the lesson starts, it begins,

My heart splits clean into two within.

One side says, Focus—do not stray,

The other whispers, Today’s the day.

The prayer will rise, the Creator hears,

My chest collapses into tears.

Tears for the will that only takes,

For every spark the ego breaks.

One side counts comfort, time, and gain,

Coffee, body, ease, and pain.

That’s the will to receive, loud and wise,

Selling lies that dress as truth in disguise.

The other side is small and thin,

A silent knock from deep within.

No logic there, no proof, no chart,

Just hunger—that’s the point in heart.

The will attacks when prayer is near,

Floods the mind with doubt and fear.

Why these friends? Why this path?

Look at your past—look at the math.

The heart can’t hold both at once,

It breaks beneath competing wants.

But in the break a cry is made,

Not to receive—but to be saved.

No strength to win. No way alone.

Just a plea to be overthrown.

And that small cry, broken and true,

Cuts out a space for Light to move through.

The will still stands, armed and fed,

But the point is no longer dead.

Between them both, a line appears—

Not perfection—just choice through tears.

So lesson by lesson, day by day,

I fall, I beg, I’m shown the way.

Not by crushing the will to receive,

But choosing the point I believe.

So I don’t curse the split inside,

Where ego and the spark collide.

I thank the break, the tears, the wrong—

They push my heart where I belong.

Not clean. Not whole.

But turned above—

Held by the Ten,

Wrapped in Love.