Prayer And Forgiveness In The Work

Prayer and Forgiveness in the Work

No one ascends alone, that lie cuts deep,

The ego whispers, “Your seeds are yours to keep.”

It crowns itself king, says “Stand and be strong,”

While quietly proving it’s been wrong all along.

First comes the blow, the fracture, the crack,

Troubles arrive and the heart fights back.

I curse the road, the world, the pain,

Never once asking Who pulls the rein?

Rabash says: stop—look straight at the root,

Name the desire, call evil its suit.

The will to receive dressed holy and wise

Is the very source where the darkness lies.

Not shame, not guilt, not beating the chest,

But clear recognition—this thing is the test.

All evil revealed in a single sight:

The ego alone blocks the Light.

Then prayer is born—not words, not song,

But a scream that admits “I waited too long.”

Forgiveness is asked—not for sin or mistake,

But for not turning sooner when the heart began to break.

“I blamed the world, I blamed my fate,

I blamed the friends, I blamed the gate.

Forgive me for thinking I could endure,

Forgive me for forgetting You were the cure.”

And in that moment—quiet, stark—

The evil inclination loses its spark.

Not destroyed by force, not beaten in war,

Just seen as useless—needed no more.

With no work left, it falls to the floor,

Slips into fight or flight as before.

The sages knew this law by name:

“I made the evil—and Torah the flame.”

Not Torah as text, not ink or scroll,

But Light that reforms the fractured soul.

A spice, they say, to sweeten the will,

Neutralizing poison without killing the vessel still.

Alone it won’t work—this is the knife,

The ego survives in solitary life.

But dive with the friends, heart into heart,

And the neutralization quietly starts.

Like-minded souls, one lack, one plea,

Build a place where the Light can be.

Not inside me, not inside you,

But between us—where truth comes through.

Prayer becomes shared, forgiveness expands,

No longer mine—held in many hands.

And the ego fades, not chased, not cursed,

Just outgrown… replaced… reversed.

This is the work—subtle, exact,

Not heroics, not spiritual act.

Just seeing the evil for what it is,

And turning together—to None Else Besides Him.

The Thoughts I Swear Are Mine

The Thoughts I Swear Are Mine

I wake up swinging before my feet hit the floor

Heart on guard like it’s been here before

Every sound a threat, every glance a test

Every breath measured—no time to rest

Coffee tastes like worry, news tastes like war

Even silence feels loud to the core

I call it instinct, I call it “me”

But it’s always choosing who I should be

Fight if I’m cornered, flee if I’m weak

Win the argument, or don’t even speak

Every memory sharpened into a blade

Every joy taxed, every pleasure delayed

I swear these thoughts are mine alone

Built of flesh and blood and bone

Don’t tell me different, don’t cross that line

Ain’t nobody telling me these ain’t mine

But watch it closer—real slow, real tight

Same reactions morning and night

Same heat in the chest, same closing jaw

Same story repeated like unbroken law

It tastes like fear with a prideful grin

Smells like control dressed up as “win”

Feels like pressure behind the eyes

Like I must defend just to stay alive

Then one day—nothing holy or bright

Just tired of losing the same damn fight

I see the anger before it speaks

See the panic before it peaks

And for one small breath—thin as air—

I’m not inside it… I’m watching it there

The thought still shouts, the feeling still roars

But I’m not pinned to the floor anymore

No fireworks, no haloed sound

Just a little space where I’m not bound

The ego screams, “GET BACK IN LINE”

Because it knows… it’s losing time

Not dying, not broken, not cast away

Just no longer ruling every day

And in that crack—so quiet, so small—

I don’t need to fight

I don’t need to fall

There’s a taste I’ve never known before

Not victory, not settling a score

It’s soft like water, steady and warm

Not shaped by fear, not needing form

No enemy here, no self to defend

No story to win, no point to bend

Just life moving through what I used to claim

And suddenly nothing needs a name

That’s when love shows up without a sound

Not as a prize—but as solid ground

And I finally see, with no disguise…

The thoughts still come

They’re just not who I am.

Torn Between Desire and Fate

Torn between desire and fate

Filled with rage and hate

Wanting to break totally free

From all this evil inside of me

I wake up tired before the day begins

Fighting the weight of my wants and sins

Bills on the table, blame in my head

Words I regret that I wish I never said

I say I want truth, but I bargain for ease

I pray for connection, then beg for my peace

I swear I’m done running, then turn at the gate

Cursing the road while I tempt my own fate

The ego screams loud, “This pain isn’t fair”

It counts every loss and keeps perfect repair

It says, “You deserve more—why suffer this way?”

So I feed it excuses and call it a day

But somewhere between the collapse and the cry

A quieter question slips gently by

“If not for yourself, then who will you be

When the work demands honesty?”

I start to see cracks where the light gets in

Not fixing the mess, just owning the sin

I stop asking why this weight is mine

And ask how to walk it one step at a time

The rage slows down, becomes something raw

Not a weapon to swing, but a truth that I saw

The hate turns inward, then loosens its grip

When I stop demanding the world make the shift

And then—without warning, without a sign—

I feel a warmth that was never mine

Not earned by effort, not bought by pain

But waiting between us again and again

There is none else here—no blame, no foe

Every push, every pull was You all along, I know

My part was never to win or be strong

Only to choose You when I was wrong

So take this heart, still shaking, still torn

Still learning how to be newly born

I bring You my effort, my will, my plea

And You give back love that carries me

Not because I’m pure, or finished, or wise

But because You were there behind my cries

And in that love, steady and true,

I finally rest—between me and You.

If Not Me Then Who

If Not Me, Then Who

In the beginning of the work

I wake before the light,

Hands already clenched in habit,

Bracing for another fight.

If I am not for me, then who?

No voice replaces mine,

No one carries my resistance,

No one crosses this line.

The day collects its payment first,

Bills, bodies, time, and pride,

I promise I’ll be better today—

By noon, that promise died.

I speak of faith with a bitter tongue,

Say “trust” but check the lock,

I pray for light while guarding

Every corner of my stock.

I want the end without the road,

The crown without the fall,

I want to love without surrender,

To give without losing at all.

The ego does not go quietly,

It fights like it’s the truth,

It calls surrender weakness

And humility abuse.

It counts my hours, tracks my gain,

Keeps score of every slight,

It says, “Protect yourself first,”

Then calls that wisdom, not fear, not fright.

This stage is dry and unforgiving,

No poetry, no glow,

Just teeth clenched through responsibility

With nowhere else to go.

---

Somewhere between the grind and grief,

Between collapse and breath,

I notice effort does not save me—

But it moves me toward depth.

My thoughts aren’t innocent anymore,

They carry weight and aim,

Each one bends my direction slightly,

Feeds a different flame.

Effort isn’t changing heaven,

It’s tuning where I stand,

Like leaning into the wind just right

So the sail might catch command.

The action doesn’t build the road,

That path was always there,

But effort adds velocity

To how I travel it—aware.

Each choice adds acceleration,

Each refusal slows the pace,

I learn that neutrality is fantasy,

Stillness only masks escape.

I fall, I rise, I misalign,

I curse and then I pray,

But now the work feels less like punishment

And more like how I stay.

I start to sense a partnership,

Not spoken, not declared,

Where effort meets a hidden Hand

That was always there.

---

And then the ending comes disguised

As something very small:

The need to own the outcome

Finally starts to fall.

There is none else besides Him—

Not after I give in,

But after every effort shows me

I was never acting alone to begin.

My work did not replace Him,

It revealed where He stood,

Waiting behind my resistance

Like love always would.

This love doesn’t flatter ego,

Doesn’t rush or demand,

It lets me break, lets me fail,

Then quietly takes my hand.

It forgives before I finish sinning,

Waits longer than my doubt,

Fills the space where “me” once ruled

Until “we” quietly breaks out.

I see now nothing was wasted—

Not anger, not delay,

Every step I took “for me”

Was guiding me this way.

I was never pushed aside,

Never left to fend alone,

I was taught to move, to choose, to try

Until effort led me home.

If not me, then who—to act.

There is none else—so trust.

The System (Transformed)

 The System (Transformed)

The system is beautiful—until it breaks your spine,

Perfect in design, cruel in its timing divine.

It hands you victories just to watch them decay,

Then asks who you’ll be when the comfort’s stripped away.

We learn what to expect, or so we pretend,

Until the lesson demands what we refuse to bend.

Together we promise we won’t look away,

Yet neglect creeps in softly, day after day.

Highs lift us up till we swear we can fly,

Lows come at night with no reason why.

The sages warned us—this road cuts deep,

Not a path for the strong, but for those who can weep.

Through writings we read and experiences we feel,

We swear we see truth, we swear it’s real.

Then life peels the mask, slow and precise,

And shows us our faith was a bargain, not price.

Climbing over the ego—don’t dress it as pain,

It’s choking on pride while screaming for gain.

Every step upward costs something you love,

Every demand comes stamped from above.

Faith above reason sounds holy and clean,

Until reason is screaming at what it has seen.

When logic collapses and answers all fail,

That’s where the work starts—raw, naked, and frail.

So come one, come all—but don’t lie at the gate,

This trip isn’t comfort, it’s pressure and weight.

You will fall, you will beg, you will question your name,

You’ll curse the system and still stay in the game.

The experiments aren’t theory, they carve into flesh,

They expose every motive you thought was “enmeshed.”

Every place the ego hides gets dragged to the light,

Not gently, not kindly—but brutally right.

And when you’re stripped down with nothing to claim,

No credit, no merit, no spiritual fame,

You’ll find what was missing, what knocked at the door:

Not answers—but brothers, and something much more.

So step through, my friends, not proud, not assured,

Only broken enough to be truly secured.

The system won’t save you—this much is true,

But between us, the Light finally breaks through.

Full Like A Pomegranate

 

“FULL LIKE A POMEGRANATE”

I filled my hands with holy deeds and prayer,

Stacked mitzvot high like I was going somewhere.

Counted my steps, my pages, every move,

Certain the weight of effort proved the proof.

But late at night when no one else was near,

A quiet voice exposed the lie I feared.

Not what I did—but why I always came,

Not love of Him, just love of my own name.

I gave, I learned, I sang, I bowed my head,

But fed myself with every word I said.

Each act was dressed in light, so clean, so bright,

Yet underneath it all—I served my bite.

A pomegranate split, so full, so red,

Each seed a deed I proudly thought I fed.

But juice of deceit ran down my hands,

I saw the truth I couldn’t countermand.

I wanted Him to serve the life I chose,

To bless my plans, reward my righteous pose.

I worked for pay, for peace, for holy gain,

And called the bargain “faith,” and hid the chain.

Then mercy struck—no thunder, no escape,

Just seeing clearly my own twisted shape.

I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t climb or try,

My strength collapsed, my prayers learned to cry.

Now empty stands the man who did so much,

No coin of merit left for him to clutch.

Yet in this ruin something true is born:

A need so real it tears the veil I wore.

If this is hell, then let it burn me clean,

For now I know what “Israel” must mean.

Not full of deeds, but broken, bare, and true—

Needing the One who alone can make me new.

---

The Road To February

 The Road to February

He marked the date and closed his eyes,

A distant land, a hidden prize.

February whispered soft and real,

A pull he could not help but feel.

But months before the ticket’s name,

The world leaned hard, the fire became flame.

Work piled up, the hours grew long,

Every step forward felt somehow wrong.

Money tightened like a clenched fist,

Bills lined up, no room to miss.

A newborn cried through sleepless nights,

Love was full—but heavy the fights.

His wife spoke truth with fear, not blame,

“A child needs you—this isn’t a game.”

Her words cut deep, not sharp but fair,

Responsibility thick in the air.

Inside his heart the question burned,

Is this desire selfish or earned?

He didn’t answer, didn’t pretend,

He went instead—to the Ten, his friends.

He didn’t ask for coins or ease,

He asked for strength, for what to see.

He laid it bare, the doubt, the load,

The fear of failing both paths he rode.

They didn’t promise, didn’t plan,

They held his heart like only friends can.

They raised the goal, the why, the flame,

Reminded him he’s not alone in the pain.

And time moved on, as time will do,

Still unclear—but something grew.

Extra hours, unexpected calls,

Walls gave way that once stood tall.

Work aligned without demand,

Money showed up—not in his hand,

But right on time, exact, precise,

Like mercy dressed in normal life.

And then one night, no lesson taught,

No argument, no pressure brought,

His wife sat down, looked in his eyes,

And love replaced the old replies.

She said, “I see what this means to you,

I see what it pulls your heart to do.

You should go—Israel is your place,

I won’t stand in love’s way.”

He didn’t cheer, he didn’t speak,

Tears fell quiet, strong and weak.

Not victory, not being right—

Just gratitude flooding the night.

For the road was hard, the cost was real,

Every doubt something he had to feel.

But nothing was forced, nothing torn,

Only faith refined, reshaped, reborn.

And as February drew near at last,

He packed not escape—but a path.

Carrying pressure, joy, and fear,

Knowing the Creator was already there.

Not waiting in Israel, not far away—

But in every step that led him that way.