When the only thing to do is pray.

Notice this: where are your hands?

How are you feet touching the ground?

What does the air taste like through your nostrils?

Sometimes when the dark peels in, when the night will not end,

this kind of prayer takes the cake.

Come home to your body - the thing that both pains you and give you thrills.

Prayer is not a panacea.

It does not take away the ache.

Yet it is a posture of humility before the greatness of life, opening a window and some fresh air in.

Even as you travail, let your hands become a rosary, counting the fingers like time -

babbling to yourself about the wonder of it all.

Even as the sick lay dying.

It is not up to you, but this is -

this position where I - thou becomes One.

Where the grief well is opened and the real,

shocking truth of your aliveness is not just the bliss,

but this - the ongoing excavation of your nether regions,

of the parts of you that play their old games and thwart

your now longed for, deeper in journey.

So pray.

Pause and let the incense of your heart rise.

Feel your feet upon the linoleum of the hospital,

or the carpet of your bedroom.

Where there is no solution, this is it.

Perhaps the wind of life wants you on your knees after all,

maybe the saints of old knew a thing or two as well.