Sunday, November 1, 2009

to pray for openings

If I knew how to pray I'd pray for openings--I'd pray for my body to open itself up and show off the greatest organs I've got that keep me loving, for the hands of children to be raised open to the ceilings because they know the answers for how to create a brighter future--we start by healing the wounds we've given each other, by opening our front doors to strangers, love letters to ourselves, opening our eyes to the miracle of breathing the air through the lungs of a daughter, opening our throats to the notes of the birds' songs, and opening our ears to hear the wisdom of silence. Peace. And quiet.

I'd pray for openings from the past to reveal all of the experiences that we'd otherwise never know--like the years Russel Jacobsen spent reviving the spirits of little towns in Idaho, the cans someone collected from alleys in the city to make into art, the sun on the Rockies that was warm enough to fill you up. I'd pray that the future open windows to escape through that lead us back home, for some moonshine to spill through the clouds and light up the ground back to something mysterious and beautiful, for nets to be thrown into the open sea to collect droplets of water so that we'd be reminded that the universe contains so much more than simply you and me. I'd pray for pages to open up and rewrite history, to make love through pens, to become my body upon which I write messages to my potential friends without wasting time by breaking the ice. I'd put it all out there on the very first line with something radical like, "I love you."


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