I believe God is a verb. Not a throne in the clouds, not a static object to be argued over, but the living pulse of being itself. To say “God” as a noun is to freeze what cannot be frozen, to make still what is always in motion. To speak of God as a verb is to place divinity back into the present tense—into the act of becoming, into the breath that moves through all things.

This is the starting point of my philosophy, and it shapes the work I do. Every culture has tried to name the sacred—with myth, with symbol, with doctrine. But I begin with grammar. Nouns name objects, and objects can be possessed, measured, even killed. Verbs carry action, relation, process. They do not sit still. They are alive. If the sacred is anywhere, it is here: in the ongoingness of existence, in the act of living, in the pulse of consciousness itself.

The mystics glimpsed this when they spoke in paradox: “I will be what I will be.” The physicists echo it in their mathematics, where matter dissolves into fields and probabilities, where everything is process rather than thing. Psychology, too, affirms it: we are not fixed selves but unfolding stories, verbs conjugating themselves in time.

This conviction flows through all my work. I write essays that weave philosophy, psychology, and myth—tracking the verbs of consciousness as they reveal themselves in everyday life. I teach dance, where movement itself is prayer, the body conjugating divinity step by step. I practice astrology, not as destiny etched in stone, but as a grammar of becoming—a map of verbs and patterns that help us recognize the stories we are living through.

To say “God is a verb” is not to discard science or myth, but to weave them into a language of becoming. It is to remember that the sacred is not elsewhere. It is here, in motion, in relation, in the smallest acts of presence.

We are all weaving something—through our choices, our heartbreaks, our joys. The threads tug, knot, and sometimes fray, but they are not random. They carry meaning. Some patterns speak loudly; others whisper at the edges of awareness, waiting for us to slow down and listen.

My work is to notice, to name, and to share those threads—so we remember that even the quietest gestures of our lives bend toward the sacred.

Welcome to Infinite Threads. Welcome to the tapestry.
—Becca ∞