Omer. Day 24

I write a lot about breath.I am made breathless, I say. Breathe, I remind myself. I am a creature of metaphor, I guess.

And this - not sure if it's partial metaphor or maybe mostly concrete, but I was taught, along about the time I started writing about breath, that that very breath that moves me and lifts me and separates me (even as it connects me) from (to) you, is, in fact, the truest pronunciation of the name of God.

I like to think that every breath I take is a prayer, a hymn made up of God's very name.

Truth be told, I love that idea.

So you will understand how odd it is that I sit here in the hospital, breathing with no small amount of difficulty. I have asthma. It's not the wheezy kind; I cough. Not just a delicate, puffed "ahem," but a full-on,scare the little kiddies (and myself), hacking, gasping, will-she-make-it kind of cough.

I wonder, if my breath is the name of God, when I struggle to take the next one, when I can't take the next one, have I lost God in that moment? Is that the physical manifestation of my struggle with God, a counterpoint to my metaphoric wrestling match with the Divine? Maybe.

But you know, when I can finally take in the breath that has eluded me, a great, gawping whoosh of air - oh, there is benediction in that, truer and more pure than any prayer I have ever offered.

And with that one great breath, I am filled.