Confession of an Episcopagan
When I was a girl, we prayed with our eyes closed.
Sometimes I’d peek through my lashes to see
the earnest look the face was supposed to have—brow
knit, lips perpetually on the edge of a whispered “amen,”
and head folded forward. We said what we were told to say,
and I knew all the prayers like days of the week, could
recite them for memory before I knew what a trespass was.
Now when I pray, it is usually with eyes wide.
And I never know what might come out—maybe
no words, just the silent thrill of giving the world
my attention. How I get so small and so part of it all.
And sometimes I wonder if I can call it prayer
when I dance, when I hum, when I serve the warm bread,
when I laugh, when we kiss, when I cry from the news,
when I harvest, when I dream and, mmm, close my eyes.