I don’t pray. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t necessarily possess an affinity for spoken words, so that may be partially to blame. I find that my inner musings are more to my taste than anything spoken aloud. It just seems…silly. Prayer, even if you don’t believe in the God of our current society (and would rather pray to the Goddess, Divine Feminine, Great Mystery, A Chasm in the Earth Which Contains All Knowledge, Yourself, etc) , is supposedly helpful at reducing stress and strengthening your mind and sense of self. I’ve often pondered what a prayer would mean to me, and how it would go. I don’t believe we are all sinners, so I have no prayer for forgiveness of sins. I suppose if anything, I would pray that my fellow human beings would wake up. I would pray that eyes would open and suddenly the earth would be seen for the glorious place of provision it is, rather than something which is to be maimed beyond all recognition of its former glory. I would pray that small moments would work themselves into the days of all people, moments of awareness and perhaps sorrow for their blindness and their sometimes purposeful, sometimes accidental, dark actions. I would pray that these moments broaden gradually, or perhaps even all at once, until recognizable parts of each day are spent in awe and understanding and deep gratitude for awakening. I would pray that individuals living in the city would venture far from the noise of their metropolis and find a place where they can hear the humming and singing, the twining and harmonious lyrics of the earth and that they would listen so long and so hard that they couldn’t help but notice the answering harmonics within their own bodies.
But, I don’t pray.