It can’t help but to be prayed

It seems to me, prayer is invoked for but one of two very human necessities. And whatever it is we think of prayer, it is simply a human reach of primal necessity. And now that you [my Muslin friend from the Unitarian-Universalist Church] have cloaked me with the mantle of "praying buddy," I have engaged in considerable reflection of what that might mean.

At this moment in space and time, I am compelled to pray in my preferential way. And that is to pray in the response of inspiration. The prayer of praise. The prayer of thanksgiving. The prayer of gratitude. The prayer of joy.

But my gut wants me to pray for the other reason, for the reason of desperation. And I hate that reason. For it reminds me of that old ditty:

On the brink of danger,
But not before.
God and the doctor you adore.
And when danger is past,
And all is righted,
God is forgotten, and the doctor is slighted.

And that prayer makes God a fat old elf in a red suit . . . "for you better watch out, you better not cry, you better be nice for I’m telling you why . . . he knows if you’ve been bad or good . . ."

But at this moment, I listen to the caw caw caw of a crow, the rasping chatter of ducks. The way-off-in-the-distance ambient noise of a self-centered city. For I sit on a little bench at the side of the River Bottom path at the Ft Worth [Texas] Nature Preserve. And in a very human way, I pray.

Some minutes ago, the stillness was raped and shattered by the scream of war. Two military flying machines of lethal destruction, in close formation with each other, in close proximity to the terrestrial surface of a preserve of peace and inspiration, menaced overhead with a domineering presence ... But what is war if not the desecration of peace.

But before that, the sounds of the soft cooing of a nursing baby. The sounds of a German accent of a young mother. The sounds of a timid "Hi" of a young father, their poodle on a leash, their toddler, toddling behind.

And later, the sounds of conversation with the old man in his Bwana hat, his waving hickory cane, his totally out-of-place-for-the-pathway Penny loafer shoes, who doesn't come here very much anymore. He was sad that all his friends were dying, and his favorite little restaurant was but the last to severe a personal connection. The "Wild Onion." A little joint out in the middle of nowhere northwest of Ft Worth. The old gal that ran it folded the place up. Couldn't keep it up. Couldn't get decent help. And hence, that black-eyed-pea salad with the olives and oh, those yeast rolls ... It truly is sad to see an old man smiling in the act of mourning.

And he told me to not get old.

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. Didn’t know if he was really joking or not. There is however, poignant truth in a joke.

As we parted, I wished him to take care, to have a good day.

He said he was workin' on it.

And workin' on it, I do too.

And that meant seeing things through the brilliant back-lighting of a clear winter day. Seeing the tenacious leaves fluttering in their brilliant shapes and colors and textures of that special kind of light. Of reflecting on the beauty of berries, seeds, pods, vestiges of floral parts, of ripened and dried herbaceous plants.

It meant inhaling the earthy smell of the living death of the decaying trees and shrubs and leaves and plants.

It meant remarking at the patterns of repetition in the layer after layer of lichen leaching its existence from the dark side of a tree.

It invoked feelings of the intimacy of touch. The two turtles. Stretched out on the sunlit rock in the marshland. The fore-turtle with head and neck fully extended outward. The rear-turtle snuggled tightly beside, with its fully extended head and neck nuzzled tightly to his partner. The picture of utmost trust in each other. An exemplar of soul-mate experience.

The touching of infant mouth to the nipple of the mother, the reflexive action of suckling by baby, the reflexive action of milk let-down by momma.

The touching of a poodle to his master through a taught leash.

The touching of a toddler to his daddy by independently stepping in his daddy’s footprints.

It meant the feel of the breeze. The moist warmth of the earth. The sweat on the brow. The tiredness in the feet.

An experience like this is that inspiration thing. If I am the "praying buddy," then you are my "inspiration buddy."

For thinking of you triggers inspirational things.

And inspirational things prompt prayers in response to inspiration.

And prayers of inspiration force out the dread of needing to pray for desperate things.

It lets one realize that life is the caw, caw, caw of the crow. It is the raspy chatter of the marshland duck. It is the separation from the ambient noise of the mania of the city. It is the intimate touch of turtles. It is the conversation with an old man. It is the nourishing of a new-born. It is the following in the steps of the one you love. It is the pulling on a taught leash. It is the back-lighting that gives brilliance to one’s shape and form and color and identity.

And the prayer of inspiration is a prayer that can’t help but to be prayed.

My Friend, as you find your place in space and time, I hope it is in the space of the prayer of inspiration that you find yourself and not in the space of the prayer of desperation.

Peace.

The Refectory Manager