Neshama

Neshama.

Spirit, breath; “She Who Listens”

In the tongue of the ancient slaves.

The soul of the artist, her connection to God.

She bridges the body to the Source of all things,

The font of invention, insight, and creativity.

Her names are as many as the lives lived by man,

And of those lives, many lives more.

But the truth of her nature is always the same

And persists, unchanging, forevermore.

We call her by many names:

Creativity, talent, divine inspiration,

But does she prefer to go nameless?

To name her is to demean her

To a tangible, structured construct,

But her true nature is beyond comprehension,

And yet, understood by all.

It is our self-denial that contains her,

That makes her seem distant and unknown,

As on a stormy day we forget the sun

For the rain that obscures it.

But the artist’s storm is self-made

Fueled by convections of ego

And never abating; if only we’d allow it to.

Then we might see that the storm is a passing phase

And the nameless light fills our souls once again.