The Prayer(s) I Make Between Earth and Sky

Sometimes my prayer to the sky is nothing more than a look.

Sometimes a prayer looks like taking off my shoes and letting grass tangle between my toes.

Sometimes a prayer is the words I don’t say. And then the words I do.

Sometimes my prayer is the moment where I surrender without knowing what’s next or what’s real.

Lately, my prayer has been to my body that has told me one thing, but reality has offered something else.

Putting My Hands Together

It took (and continues to take) a while to find the movement of my body, to hear the call of the feelings that always knew what happened next. What I could do next. What I could do to bring something forward or push something out of the way.

Not now.

I am in the liminal, but also in dissolution, the place where I am nowhere and everywhere and mixing with just the right things to move beyond this startled moment. One that I signed up for. One that I agreed to.

(But they never tell you this is going to happen. Even though it always does.)

I put my hands together and I close my eyes.

Breathe.

I open my eyes gently to look at the earth, the solid foundation of steps and journeys. The places I have paced and walked and tripped and gotten lost. The worn avenues of conversations, class plannings, and various weeds and rocks.

Breathe.

I can smell the way the soil changes when it’s wet and when it’s been covered in pollen from the oak tree. And that is a prayer.

I can feel the crunch of grass as it dries in the drought of California (again).

That is a prayer. That is the way that light lands and leeches moisture from the air. How it dries my throat and I can’t say anything more.

Even though I want to.

My Eyes Look Upward

And the sky calls out with its bright blue in the day and indigo at dusk, the shapeshifting that beckons me to remember the Sun, stars, and moon. To find messages in clouds. To know direction and determination as the wind remembers the way.

I look up because some prayers are bigger. Some prayers need to reach out to galaxies and rise to every possible place a star could be born.

These prayers require more than breath.

They require trust. They demand belief.

And I haven’t learned how to take that deep of breath yet. All I know is that I want to.

I offer a prayer to the wild divine, the wide unknown, the expansive capacity for things to exist where I can not see them. Where I can only hope that the light I notice is one I might name and understand.

Where I can only hope that all of the ways these patterns unfold are holding me in a way that will be soft enough to remind me that I will not cry forever.

I wrote on my wipe off board at home at the start of all of this: “Trust your Magick.” It’s in red ink, the color of hearts and correction. I made a promise to myself to trust this body, this being between earth and sky.

That kiss between earth and sky.

And to that promise, I make prayers.

I offer prayers.

Not on my knees. Not on my stomach.

Arms wide open.

Heart shaking and ready for whatever is answered.

And how silent it might become.

Your Own Prayer

Take a breath.

Look down.

Look up.

Repeat.

That is the prayer.

That is a noble and courageous offering.