It is as though my life were a song,
trapped in the chorus.
I rehearse, and rehearse again—
and do not live it.

You astonish me.
And I don’t startle easily.

Do I practice religion?
What a peculiar daily prompt.

It tiptoes in, pretending to be small,
but echoes down every street—
knocking gently on your front door…
then asking to see the letters you’ve hidden in your attic.

Religion sounds ritual.
A sequence of steps without heart.

And yet—
it is beautiful
that you even care to ask.

Permit me to be plain,
if not entirely proper:

I practice many things.

I practice patience—daily, I must say.
Often more than I care to admit.

I practice forgiveness,
even when my pride crosses its arms and holds a silent protest.

But religion?

I can barely practice putting on makeup
without looking like I lost a duel with a paintbrush.

So no—
I do not need to practice
what already lives inside me.

I do not practice loving God.
I simply do.

Faith is not a performance.
It is a presence.

And I do not practice prayer.

I pray—
when my soul aches,
when my joy overflows,
and oftentimes when no words will do at all.

So no,
I do not practice religion.

What I do practice
is being a better person—
even when the day makes it hard,
even when I fail
and have to try again tomorrow.

Excuse me, if you please—
I must now tend to my practice,
for even the finest roses require a bit of pruning.