A sermon for smoke and soul
O children of breath, gather close—
for the air is an altar,
and the ember, a small sun
burning the prayer of the earth.
See now—how the leaf curls inward,
how its veins remember rain,
how it dies to become divine again,
how fire awakens what slumbers in green.
Inhale.
Slowly.
Deeply.
The spirit enters.
It dances through the gates of the lungs,
it hums in the blood like a forgotten hymn,
it whispers its name in the marrow.
Now you are not alone—
you are two beings in one temple,
flesh and fragrance intertwined.
The smoke is a silver serpent,
spiraling through your soul’s corridors,
wrapping, winding, weaving—
its thoughts become your visions,
its roots, your memories.
You taste its sorrow,
you feel its ancient laughter,
its long remembering of sunlight and soil.
You see with its dreaming leaves,
you pulse with its hidden chlorophyll heart.
For a time—
a brief, burning time—
you are kin to the herb,
borne on the same invisible tide.
Together you rise,
together you shimmer
between the worlds.
But hear me—
as all breath must fade,
so too the spirit slips away.
It sighs from your chest like a ghost of rain,
unthreading itself from the loom of your being.
You will feel the hollow then—
that sacred ache where it once sang,
the tender sorrow of parting.
Yet in that emptiness,
a seed remains—
its wisdom rooted in your stillness,
its echo waiting in your breath.
So when next the smoke ascends,
remember:
you do not consume the herb—
you commune with it.
You are the vessel,
the wind,
the brief embodiment of its dream.
And when it departs—
thank it, softly.
Bow to the green spirit,
for it lent you its light,
and you, for a heartbeat,
were more than yourself.
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
A sermon for smoke and soul
O children of breath, gather close—
for the air is an altar,
and the ember, a small sun
burning the prayer of the earth.
See now—how the leaf curls inward,
how its veins remember rain,
how it dies to become divine again,
how fire awakens what slumbers in green.
Inhale.
Slowly.
Deeply.
The spirit enters.
It dances through the gates of the lungs,
it hums in the blood like a forgotten hymn,
it whispers its name in the marrow.
Now you are not alone—
you are two beings in one temple,
flesh and fragrance intertwined.
The smoke is a silver serpent,
spiraling through your soul’s corridors,
wrapping, winding, weaving—
its thoughts become your visions,
its roots, your memories.
You taste its sorrow,
you feel its ancient laughter,
its long remembering of sunlight and soil.
You see with its dreaming leaves,
you pulse with its hidden chlorophyll heart.
For a time—
a brief, burning time—
you are kin to the herb,
borne on the same invisible tide.
Together you rise,
together you shimmer
between the worlds.
But hear me—
as all breath must fade,
so too the spirit slips away.
It sighs from your chest like a ghost of rain,
unthreading itself from the loom of your being.
You will feel the hollow then—
that sacred ache where it once sang,
the tender sorrow of parting.
Yet in that emptiness,
a seed remains—
its wisdom rooted in your stillness,
its echo waiting in your breath.
So when next the smoke ascends,
remember:
you do not consume the herb—
you commune with it.
You are the vessel,
the wind,
the brief embodiment of its dream.
And when it departs—
thank it, softly.
Bow to the green spirit,
for it lent you its light,
and you, for a heartbeat,
were more than yourself.
I think this speaks volumes within the brain and the lungs.....
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