Prayer At Dawn

As the sky turned white with morning and I slid back into the world and little by little my awareness returned, I had an urge to…pray. Is pray the word? I had an urge to silently give voice to a feeling of awe, to give shape to the memories of those I have loved, to articulate a thank you, to linger minutes longer under the blue-gray quilt and contemplate, deferring even coffee.

I can feel the anguish and the tumult, of course, and I am haunted by the suffering of others, but I rest in the oasis of this moment and place, and my luck is disproportionate to my worth, but this is where I am.

A reassuring chitter of birds has begun, the colors return, hills yielding to yellow, sky going blue, the bit of sea I can see in the distance decidedly indigo now.

Now my brother Eddie makes an appearance in my head, thirty-two years after his passing, almost to the day, and the old sadness hovers, and the sting of remorse, and the sprawling unwieldy love spilling over like wasted water. I think of my old buddy Greg, whose birthday is tomorrow; he spent most of his life in a wheelchair and in pain but was irrepressible to the end, and I wish I could pick up the phone and call him, but the impulse dissolves into a simple wow that I once had such a friend. And of course since I have opened the door, the whole procession of my beloved dead step out—they know who they are–-and I decide to proclaim them all alive and well, to recommit to the alchemy of turning sorrow to compassion, and to celebrate the gifts each brought me as I live my own remaining years. How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? asked Kunitz. Indeed.

I did not always realize how much I was given. I was treasured sometimes, warmed by many lights, a recipient of handwritten letters. I am often disenchanted with humanity, and there’s plenty of reason for that, but I hold fast to hope, and in my own life, kind and well-meaning people are the majority. I bear witness daily to a spectacle of wonder, and it surprises me anew each morning, and I try my best to document and not forget. For this beautiful and heartbreaking world—and to it—I am saying thank you.

Another quote by André Gide clicked with me recently: “The most important things to say are those which often I did not think necessary for me to say — because they were too obvious.” It’s true, isn’t it? What I regret most in my life are the kindnesses I did not offer, the loving truths I did not speak out loud, the exuberance and joy I failed to express. Were these obvious? Love unspoken is a hobbled thing; gratitude unexpressed goes nowhere.

I know someone who says she does not believe in God, but she prays anyway. It’s a mystery, but she says it helps. And what is prayer but a powerful impulse to articulate what is felt, even if obvious? To empower the sentiment with word or thought, to direct the energy to the source of it all, to give voice to the fear or the love.

On this morning, I woke up wanting to pray, and it came out like this. Thank you.