Do I Practice Religion? (a confessional disarray)

do i
practice
"it"?

the voice asks as if
it’s a stretch before a run,
as if certainty has muscles.

i chew the question slowly—
like stale gum with
notes of chalk,
echoes of old lectures
from people who talked at the sky
and thought the clouds nodded.

what is "it," anyway?

// belief? //
// discipline? //
// ritual? //
// pretending something listens back? //

i practice breathing on bad days.
i practice disappearing in full rooms.
i practice answering questions with
poetry instead of truth.

if that's not "it,"
then define it for me
in ink that doesn’t smudge.


i remember
the first time someone asked me this,
on a train
moving fast enough
to make everything blur,
except that question.

“do you practice it?”

i replied:
"define practice.
define it."

they blinked,
as if i had handed them
a worm instead of a flower.


some days
i believe in the wind.
other days
i think my pillow understands me better
than anything invisible.

i once bowed my head,
but only because i dropped my keys.

i look up at the sky often,
but only because i like the color
between storms.

is that practice?


i keep a journal
of things that make me feel
the way people describe “it”:
— fresh oranges
— sudden kindness
— unprovoked laughter
— that exact second when silence becomes music

i scribble
“maybe this is it?”
next to all of them.

some pages just say
“this isn’t it.”
in sharp pencil.


i created my own structure.
not made of marble,
but tension and metaphors.
no doors.
just openings.
no windows.
just breath.

i go there when i feel
too human.
i don’t light anything.
i don’t kneel.
i just sit.
and listen to the temperature.

does that count?


i once
laid perfectly still
on a hardwood floor
and imagined I was a radio
tuning in to whatever
the universe wasn’t saying.

crackles.
feedback.
a hum shaped like a question mark.

i turned the volume up
until my ribs thudded.

then someone knocked at the door
and i remembered
i had bills to pay.


i practice
disbelief
like a piano piece
i never quite finish.
i fumble.
start over.
but the melody stays.
even when i try silence.


sometimes
i leave a cup of water on the windowsill
not for any reason—
just in case
something thirsty passes by.

some would call that kindness.
others might call it “it.”

i just call it
instinct.


i believe in hands—
the way they tremble
when truth is near.
the way they reach
without knowing what waits.

i’ve seen hands
do terrible things.
i’ve seen hands
create softness
from nothing.

no ceremony.
just the choice
to touch without harm.

if that’s not sacred,
i don’t know what is.


people keep asking
what i practice.

do i follow something?
do i serve something?
do i devote?
do i deny?

i say:
i follow instincts
and serve moments.
i devote to presence.
i deny nothing—
except cruelty
dressed as certainty.


i don’t chant.
i don’t fast.
i don’t label.
i don’t gather.

but i stare into the eyes
of strangers
just long enough to remind myself
we both blink.

i sit beside oceans
and let the tides decide
who i am.
sometimes the answer is sand.
sometimes the answer is fog.

i’ve wept at sunsets
not for beauty,
but because
they remind me
nothing asks for permission to end.


do i practice it?

i practice waiting
without needing.
i practice not knowing.
i practice keeping my palms open
when the world begs me to close them.

i practice naming shadows
and then letting them leave.

i practice language
that does not require echo.
i practice stillness
in motion.

i practice
unfolding.
again.
again.
again.


someone said once,
“you act like you believe in something.”

i laughed.
belief is too clean.
i roll around in the mud of maybe.
i live
in the pause
between inhale and exhale.

that breath?
that’s it.


i’m not here
to ascend.
i’m not here
to convert, convince, or conjure.

i’m here to walk barefoot
on whatever this is,
feel each pebble,
each ache,
each moment that reminds me
i am matter
pretending to understand meaning.


you ask me:
“do you practice it?”

and i answer:

i practice
showing up.

i practice
refusing to numb.

i practice
speaking gently to the scared part of me
that used to need
a rulebook for existing.

now,
i let her rest.

now,
i just live.


---

end of practice—until next breath.