It’s so strange really, the insult, threat and even surprise we feel, when someone prays different, loves different, talks different, looks different — Chooses, different. The intolerance we hold in our hearts, when God speaks 6,500 languages. She probably doesn’t give a shit if we pray or don’t pray, as many that pray, only pretend. *Transaction* The word that comes to mind.
Those that truly pray, are intimately woven with *Reverence* The word that comes to heart. Smiling eyes of a stranger. Counting ten baby toes on a first born — Oh, the holiness of toes. It’s a kneel in the dirt. Fists sometimes pounding a pillow, for all that has seemed and seems unfair. It is screaming for something or someone lost. By the millions. It is to meet a new lover, a new friend and whisper, “I care.” It is to hold a sign that says, ”Enough is Enough.” It is remembering old friends and all they taught us. Showed us — and to let them know, they are part of the threads, back to our own Holiness.
Prayer is to know that all is Holy, all the time. And really, that there is no time — only the time that is passing before we too, become the dirt, we once kneeled in. The mountain we once climbed. The petals on a flower that we picked, asking, “Does he love me? Love me not.” Knowing the answer isn’t part of the prayer. That’s just it. Prayer is a humble surrender to the uncertain. The dark shadows in a forest, on a sunny day. It is not being over or under someone. It is my ten toes and your ten toes, if we’re lucky enough to have our feet, not blown off by war. On a Pilgrimage – Together – Sharing Beauty.
Medicinal Conversations 