Tell me, what else should I have done?

I’ve never known exactly what a prayer is, I suppose.

Perhaps I’ll talk like I’m chatting with a friend, except leave out the parts where I still gossip or talk about my new jeans or even swear once in a while. If I filter so much, is it even talking to a friend anymore?

Is there a formula, some kind of pithy acronym: praise, repent, ask, yield? Will this assure I’ve said all the things necessary to explain myself to the one who knew me before he knit me?

Should I build a foundation on tradition, leaning on a set of verses written by people whose time on this particular earth ended long ago…our Father, blessed art thou, I pray the Lord my soul to keep?

All of these have their place, I think. Prayer is a multitude.

Prayer is a wrestle in the wilderness, an audible sob in a midnight garden, an entire nation shouting an exhortation, a bargain, a plea, a dance of joy, an ancient poem, a reminder, an unspoken desperation. But what is my prayer?

I am in this summer of my life, right in the middle where things feel slower and more at ease. Days get long, exhausting, and uncomfortably hot but there is lemonade and there is no need to hurry. 36 is going on 37 and my own skin feels more real and alive than ever. In this season I have discovered the kind of prayer for which I was built.

Prayer is peace and perked ears, the scratch of a pencil, the plastic clink of a keyboard, the gray chill of pre-dawn, thick socks, tears fogging cat-eye glasses, laughter in my throat, a poem, a story, a question at my fingertips, the soul made ink.

It is in that silence and poetry that I’ve heard quiet and clear: write this, share this, this isn’t just for you. To share is a choice I’ve been avoiding.

Sitting atop a choice like that is no way to be at ease. Frankly, its a rather lumpy seat and produces no small amount of wriggling and shifting about. So, here I am, up off my seat and inviting you to go on a long walk with me and my mixed metaphors.

I’ve written before, many of you reading this will know. That writing was framed around a season of intense making with my hands and my body, and I’ve chosen to leave it as it is, to be its own creative entity.

I’m leaning into something new, a continuation of something I’ve already been doing my whole life-lost in thought, in my head, attempting to transcribe what is ephemeral and fickle.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Today’s inspiration…

The Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

I’d love to hear your thoughts on prayer, and choosing to answer that to which we are called.

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