As my brain searches for its wakeup today, the morning prayers rumble within me like shooting stars. I hear one in my head and try to catch it only to find another one ready to burst into view. I am simultaneously energized and contented by these flashes around me, flashes of Hebrew and hope and thoughts from our tradition. I feel a sense of belonging as I link myself to the legacy of prayer givers that have come before me. Others who search out organization in an often chaotic life. Being a regular synagogue goer and some time lay leader, I know enough to let myself be led by memory rather than book. So there I lay in bed, next to dog and child and husband, and I find myself both observer and participant. I hear the words that had once troubled me, and now they seem more in balance with the ones that had always brought me joy. I am grateful for having stuck with the practice of these morning blessings, however unconventionally offered, that I can now say them without complication. I choose not a yoga practice today as is my early morning gravitation, and instead, stick to the silence of the light and the words of my faith. How lucky am I to participate.
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