This world. This place. This life.

Praying to No One

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Sometimes I miss praying.

I miss the feeling of total honesty, of letting go, of defenses dropping.

“Guide me, Holy One, into an unclenched moment, a deep breath, a letting go,” Ted Loder prays.

And I can almost pray along.  Almost.  But almost praying is like almost singing.  It’s just not the same. Yeah, sure, I can re-write the words in my head.  Leave out the “Holy One.”  But re-writing is a step back from experience.  It’s a clench, not a letting go.

What I need is a practice of prayer that does not presume that prayer is directed to Someone.  I need a journal, not a letter.  A child wants a new bike, and writes a letter to Santa; an adult sees that her shoes are worn out, and plans to go shopping.

May I be still enough to see my life–joy, need, pain, fullness, wonder.  May stillness become clarity, and clarity, action.

So may it be.


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