Prayer, on my good days, is how I breathe. It’s listening, as much as whispering. It takes the wobble out of my knees, and puts the wallop into my heart’s beat. It’s woven into the hours, from first light till the moment my eyelids finally flutter closed for the day. It unspools without measure or meter. It might be a geyser. Or merely a murmur.
The other morning, deep in meditation, it came to me that prayer, at its holiest, is a cradle, woven from filaments of wonder and wisdom. At its most powerful, a transitive verb. Picture yourself swept into arms that hold you, that rock you, that lull you. Prayer, cradling.
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