Let Us Pray

Let me tell you about my church.

It doesn’t have pews.
There’s no pulpit.
No sermon. No congregation. No doctrine.

Just breath.
A candle.
A floor.
And a body that has carried nearly five decades of living.

And at 4am—yes, 4am—I show up to worship.

I used to think movement had to be useful. Had to produce something. Speed, shape, sweat, discipline. It had to justify its place on the calendar. But now? My movement is something else entirely.

It’s devotion.
It’s a wordless prayer.
It’s how I remember I’m still here.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, I lift weights. That’s a different kind of presence. Strength-building. Grounding. A ritual of its own. But on the other mornings, when the world is still sleeping and the air is thick with silence?

This is when I dance.
This is the altar.
This is the remembering.
Not for performance. Not for goals. Just for presence. For reverence.

Let me walk you through it. Maybe your body is asking for a little worship too.

Arrival (5 Minutes)

The candle goes first. Always. Flame before motion.
A quiet signal: this moment is sacred.

I sit. Or fold into the floor. Close my eyes.
Let breath find its way back in.
No playlists. No stretching yet. Just stillness.

This is where I arrive—not just into the space, but into myself.
I say, “Good morning, body,” like I mean it.
Because I do.
Because this is the only one I’ve got, and they deserve a greeting.

Wake-Up Flow (10 Minutes)

This part is gentle.
The slow sweeping of the sanctuary.

A shoulder rolls. Spine arcs and softens. Hips open like doors unlatched.
Ankles, wrists—every hinge gets a little attention. A little offering.

The soundtrack might be silence, or something soft. No beats. No demands. Just breath and body.
It’s not about range of motion. It’s about relationship.

Intuitive Movement (15 Minutes)

Now we move.

I pick a song like it’s sacred text. Something that stirs something.
It doesn’t need to make sense. It just needs to feel.

And then the body leads.

No mirrors. No form. Just whatever motion rises.
Sometimes wild. Sometimes small. Sometimes it looks like prayer. Sometimes it looks like grief with a rhythm.
No one’s watching. And that’s the point.

This isn’t choreography.
This is communion.

Stillness + Integration (10 Minutes)

After the motion comes the hush.
The exhale.
The moment of reflection, like the pause after the last note of a hymn.

I lie down. Or sit. Hand on chest or belly. Let the breath slow.
What changed?
What softened?
What woke up?

Sometimes I journal.
Sometimes I draw shapes or write words I don’t understand yet.
Sometimes I just let the quiet hold me.

This is the closing of the circle.
The body says, thank you for listening.

Transition (5 Minutes)

The candle dims. The tea steeps. The window opens.
This is the soft return. The bridge back into ordinary time.

I don’t rush. I don’t scroll.
I let the sacred linger for one more breath.

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This isn’t a routine. It’s a ritual.
It doesn’t demand anything from me except that I show up.

I don’t move for metrics. I move for meaning.
Not for progress. For presence.

This body is my temple.
This breath is my liturgy.
This 4am practice?
It’s the holiest thing I do.

So if you’re looking for something sacred that doesn’t require a building or belief system or perfect posture—
If you want to feel at home in your own skin—
Light a candle.
Put on a song.
Let your body become the guide.

And listen.

You’re allowed to move like that.
You’re allowed to worship like that.
You’re allowed to come home.