I have an interest in the word "you" — the address that intimates use for each other, that yearning we might have, that sense of addressing self, other, Other, the void, the past, the unknown, the deeply known. That word allows me spaciousness without definition, and I like it, so I regularly repeat the word "you", in Irish, with the in and out of breath, until I've forgotten who is speaking and who is being addressed. ("The eye with which I see God / is the eye with which I see myself", my bewildering friend Meister Eckhart says.)
Is this a prayer? Sure. Is it a prayer? Why not? Is it a prayer? No. Is it? Yes. Too many years of theological study have immunized me from any interest in definitions that ask the impossible of the intellect. I'm interested in practices and signposts to the present. And breath is such a signpost, such a practice, and such an infinity.
One night as I was deep in meditation, I suddenly found myself in a very curious state. It was as if I were dead. Everything had been cut away. There was no longer any before and after. Self and object were gone. The only thing I felt was how the inside of my self was totally unified and filled with everything that was over, under and around me ... After a while I came back to myself like one risen from the dead. My seeing, hearing, speaking, my actions and thoughts were completely different from what they had been up to then. As I hesitantly attempted to reflect on the truths of the world and to grasp the meaning of the ungraspable, I understood everything.