Breath to Breath- The Journey of Life.

Breath

You are Eternal. Infinite. Pulsing with peace. There are no thoughts, no time, no self - only pure being, pure light. There is no “I,” no “other,” no world, no before or after. Only oneness. Separation is meaningless. There is only presence: hyper‑aware, undivided. No passage, no duration, not even the concept of time.

Then, a stirring. Something moves. Something that isn’t everything else. It’s unfamiliar. There’s noise, but you don’t yet know what noise is. Suddenly, you are “somewhere.”

Sensations begin.

Not the all‑encompassing kind, but ones with edges, limits, direction. They multiply, rapidly. You hear voices - some from beyond, some possibly from “you.” But what does that mean? You are no longer everywhere. You are here.

You are a “being.” With a name. With traits. You have been born.

Now comes distinction. One sensation helps you avoid crashing into things, letting you guess the shape of what’s ahead. You learn this is called “sight.”

Another lets you perceive presence, size, even mood. Larger things hum with power; smaller things whisper. This is called “hearing.”

There’s a trembling inside; the thing that gives you all these sensations begins to vibrate. It produces something new - a sound of your own. They call it your “voice.” And then, something stranger, softer: a sensation that arrives without shape or sound. They call it “smell.” It weaves through everything and permeates everything around you.

You grow. Others speak, and you listen. You begin to believe what they say. You start identifying with the sensations, with the feelings.

Like everything, this goes in steps.

At first the universe is simple: there is you and the soft, nurturing force you eventually learn is called “mother.” When you purse your lips and blow out, it makes a “sound,” and she comes running. “Ma.” Every step you make is greeted with happy sounds. The universe is warm and beautiful and soft.

But then, one day, you make the sound and nothing happens… the warmth and love don’t come. It’s just for a moment. But in that moment something cold and sharp coils inside you. You don’t have a word for it yet, but you’ll eventually learn it’s called “fear.” Suddenly the distinction between you and the soft love you have always known takes shape. You can now be “alone.”

You meet others. There’s a deeper sound and presence that comes around sometimes, too. You eventually learn that this is called “Father.” It is nurturing, although unlike “Ma,” it’s not always there.

You discover that you can manipulate your environment, and that there are things you see that you can change. First there are appendages you see - they feel different than everything else. You eventually learn that these are parts of “your body.” What happens in this space affects your consciousness most viscerally.

You learn to manipulate it. One time you move and something sudden happens - everything lurches. It hurts.

You cry “Ma!” and “Ma” comes running and picks you up. Later you learn this is called “falling off a bed.” You are okay. But now you start to feel how many other parts of the universe there are.

Another time “Father” makes a harsh sound. You’ve never heard anything like it. It shocks you; you get a familiar feeling - the one you had the first time you said “Ma” and there was a moment of silence before the warmth and love returned.

In this way you grow up. You develop fears and strengths. You learn what gets you warmth and love and what does the opposite. You develop and form stories about what you are.

Soon, when someone asks “what are you?”, you point to those stories. You start to live them. You are good at some things. You struggle with others. Your senses pull you into roles and identities. Your sense of self grows layered with stories.

Sometimes, just before waking, or sitting in a crowd where your boundaries soften, you remember: a flicker of something vast, formless, familiar. A presence behind the names and the categories.

But then life returns. Another sensation. Another demand. You’re swept away again, wearing the suit of thoughts and flesh, chasing the gravity of things. Religious or not, it doesn’t matter.

You move through your day all the same: being “you.” The body hungers. The mind categorizes. The world pushes and pulls. You respond, as the “you” you’ve come to accept.

But still, there are moments.

Maybe at a kumzits or in shul, when voices rise together in song, and you feel the presence of something far greater than the sum of the people in the room. Or when you look into the eyes of someone you love - really look - and for a brief, wordless moment, you remember what it means to belong to more than just yourself.

These moments don’t last. But for just a second, they invite you back. Back to the brightness. To the light. To the stillness without a self.

You don’t stay. But, for an instant, you remember.

To Breath

You are lying in a bed, surrounded by those who love you.

You have lived a long life. And now, as breath comes slower, your mind drifts back through the story - the heartbreak and the healing, the loves that shaped you, the frustrations that sharpened you, the quiet triumphs no one saw. All of it, shimmering like reflections on water.

You are filled with wonder.

You always knew this day would come. In truth, you’ve been walking toward it for some time. As the years passed, you turned inward, seeking truth, refining your being, learning to elevate each moment.

Missed chances became lessons. Regrets softened into wisdom. You tried - truly tried - to make good of the time you were given.

Those around you grieve. And part of you, too, is sad to go. What a strange and beautiful journey it’s been.

But you also know, deeply and quietly, that you aren’t really leaving.

You’re just letting go.

Letting go of a layer. Of weight. Of separation.

Thoughts begin to blur. Sensations grow soft, then distant. Boundaries that once felt sharp dissolve like smoke in light. The lines that define “you” melt into the background. What once seemed so “real” gently recedes. And in its place, something else appears:

That light. Peace without edge. Love without grasping. Joy without cause. You recognize it, not as something new, but as something long known. The home behind all homes. The Presence behind every face.

You do not resist. You sail forward. And as you go, your soul meets its source in a reunion as intimate as breath meeting breath: a kiss not of lips, but of essence. The Neshikin that ends the long separation. You have played your part, walked your path, and made your unique offering.

You loved deeply and sang. You knew heartbreak and longing, brokenness and healing, grief and celebration. You endured betrayals you thought you could never survive - and somehow, in spite of it all, you did. You danced and cried through confusion that seemed overwhelming, through pain that felt impossibly big.

Now, lying here, it’s clear: all of it - the “good” and the “bad” - was a gift to yourself. An opportunity to experience the full range of your infinite capacity for self‑discovery.

And, finally, as the last flickers of form release their hold, you become one with the infinite loving awareness that, in truth, you always were. Boundless. Undivided. Eternal.

“And then comes the hitherto unbelievable surprise: you don’t die because you were never born. You had just forgotten who you are.” - Alan Watts