Everything feels like a prayer these days. A plea.
The sky today was the sky-est of sky blues, and as I lay outside gazing up at its uncomplicated splendor, I wondered how close, how far it all was. I wondered how long it takes the blue of the sky to reach me, the way the stars take years or centuries for their light to. I wondered if I were staring up at the past from its future, my present.
I lit citronella incense sticks and placed them in a half circle, like I was preparing myself for sacrifice. Maybe I was.
I asked the sky to make me in its own image, open.
Open to oopsies and overwhelm and outrage.
Open enough to remain still the same way the sky becomes simply a space for clouds to pass through itself, whether stormy or serene or whatever's in between and beyond.
I prayed for the same patience it must take for all the gases and particles of sunlight to scatter themselves all about this earth, every single day.
The kind of patience that is both the foundation and the outcome of knowing its mere existence is its divine and perfect purpose.
I pled to be granted balance between consistency and sanity.
That liminal space where "want to" and "have to" become both one and obsolete.
Where breath is not just a means for grounding but the sacred ground itself.
I wondered if the sky would be the kind of person to stand by and watch as horrors unfold, or if it were the kind of person who believes that everything has already been written and the only way through is to keep opening itself to the unfolding.
It is both my prayer to the sky and its message to me--
Keep opening
to the thrill
the mundane
to the sleeplessness and worry
to the madness and the fury
to the confusion
and the fusion of every thing and its opposite
to magnificence
to joy
to the here
and the now
keep opening
opening
opening.
with love,
brookie