I Have a Confession to Make
I’ve started praying again.
My prayers are not the desperate cries or badgering beggings of the past. They are ordinary. Quiet. I sit. I wait. I get up and live my life, and then I sit. I wait.
When I pray, I often imagine myself opening an old wooden door and descending into a darkness. A Figure in a robe stands beside a fire.
On rough days, I imagine myself curling up into a little ball on the earth as the Figure watches me.
On better days, I sit and watch the Figure and the Fire.
This is not a warm and fuzzy Presence, so even though my thoughts might be a thousand chariots racing around the ruts of my brain, I know better than to spew and spit.
I sit. I wait.
This Presence is not interested in lightning epiphanies. Or dazzling miracles. This is the Presence of lonely gravel roads. The Presence of cupboards filled with outdated spices and sticky spills. The Presence that sees everything, and that sees everything as This:
This moment, however hard or amazing or ordinary it may be.
This breath, the one that keeps us awake and alive in this Now.
I have wrestled with this Presence for most of my life.
I have resisted when others have told me to turn to this Presence.
And I don’t even know what I mean by Presence.
But, I do know that when I sit and picture myself opening that door, when I brave walking down into that space of the Figure and the Fire, I find calm.
And ease.
And peace.
It’s not that every question is answered and every problem is solved. No, in fact, I feel like I know less now than I ever have, and often what comes next requires every bit of courage that I possess.
But in that space, I know. The Figure is there, playing hide and seek in the smallest of words.
A Presence in us.
A Presence with us.
Inviting us to be brave and know:
We are okay.
We are loved.
We are enough.