Prayer for a Wounded Heart

PRAYER FOR A WOUNDED HEART

Divine Beloved: Prayer is as near to me as breath, and 

as essential to serenity. Among the sages of Aquarius 

and higher planes a few claim such enlightenment they 

find no reason or necessity to pray. They say that in 

creation you gave into our possession a messiah – 

everything required for joy and peace and celebration. 

I believe this, yet today in all my striving I have failed to 

find that placid, eloquently silent place within. My faith 

has been waylaid, and on this unfamiliar path are 

self-reproach and bitterness, and the abyss, and in 

despair I turn to you and pray,

O Father-Mother, vouchsafe to me a map of my 

divinity, and a light for navigating in the dark, 

and a song of angels I can follow if the 

candlewick should sputter and the flame 

go out.

Divine Beloved, they say my thoughts make my reality, 

advising discipline, as if directing fishes of the seven 

seas to swim the currents differently. But, God, when 

I would fix my mind on Heaven, I find that it resists. 

Ideas steer themselves amiss and wander into hostile 

territory, taken and held captive there. And when the 

world in its contrariness seems alien, perverse, and 

perilous, I turn to you and pray again,

O Father-Mother, it is but my dread betraying 

me; it is my fear that weighs me down. God, 

vanquish these, my ancient enemies, and in 

the Canaan where they staked their frail and 

tentatively faithful claim, create anew in me a 

clean heart and a keen and ordered mind 

subservient to it.

Divine Beloved, they say the universe is love and 

nothing else exists. But, God, sometimes it seems that I 

am knocking on the universe’s door and no one opens 

it; nobody heeds my urgency; and I, afraid and lonely in 

a cosmos wrought of stone and haunted by imaginings 

of isolation, turn to you and pray for your embrace. 

O Father-Mother, save me from this emptiness. 

Out of the pit uplift me now, above the 

skirmishes and struggles that beset me, 

phantoms of my own anxiety that tug at 

me along the porous edges of my 

consciousness. Raise me to the heights, full in the 

sun, with vision unobstructed, such that I might 

see the allness of the Holy One, the nothingness 

of specious images (which are but errant 

thought’s invention), and the eternal, honest 

truth of love.

Divine Beloved, they say, Follow the cynosure of your 

bliss. But, God, sometimes I don’t know where it is or 

even if I’d recognize it if it met me on the wayside, 

scrambling as I tend to do from this amusement to 

that glittering distraction. I am ill acquainted with it, 

having been too long at sea, gone far from home upon 

an odyssey productive only for what it failed to find. I 

feel ashamed then and unworthy of Creation’s gifts. 

Thus it is I turn to you and pray, 

O Father-Mother, for me you have made nothing 

less than paradise; I am designed for glory, 

guided to release in poetry and song whatever 

music I possess, my poverty of spirit fed, my 

brokenness repaired and blessed abundantly, my 

soul’s treasury enriched according to your 

promise and my glad acceptance of it. For all this 

I am watchful but I need not search; it finds me 

where I rest and dream. 

Thus, Beloved, am I grateful now for what the 

harvest yields today, for tender life emerging 

through hard winter’s crust, for buds whose 

promise comes in measured time, unrushed 

among earth’s orchards, gardens, fields; for 

nature’s generosity to be revealed: great, arching 

trees in full leaf and in flower, however faintly 

scented now, appearing yet in shadow or 

in silhouette.

This is the dawning of the new day, and I, 

impatient for the unrestraint of morning over 

the horizon, sunbeams dappling the stream and 

warming field and forest, had much better feast 

my senses on the songbirds’ predawn crescendo, 

on evanescent drops of dew that settle only to 

evaporate in scented puffs of mist from wild 

grasses tender with the season; on pink and 

pale-blue streaks the sky dispatches forward, 

heralds of the coming glory, summoning the 

sentient created beings, each as witness to the 

ordinary signs and wonders that unfailingly 

appear. Then the watchers gather to give praise 

and thanks, seek mercy, receive healing, and 

turn their faces eastward, where the miracle of 

day ascends and radiates the sure and certain 

light of grace.

Amen.

Flower Quilt

No Complaints

Sunshine and Shadow, Winslow Homer, 1872

SUNNY, CHANCE OF SCATTERED STORMS

O Memory of mine, if some trifling irritation should
happen to at any time arise and try to shape itself into
a shadow something like complaining… if, perhaps, my
pillow is too hard or soft or otherwise refuses to
cooperate with the odd shape of my head... or it
occurs to me to wonder, Did I forget to lock the door?
and I, grumbling, get out of bed and stumble twenty
feet to check — the door indeed is locked, and I am
cross about the wasted effort —

Remind me gently, Memory, about the day when I
believed I had nowhere to stay... and then about my
lying in the dark on cold faux marble tile in hostile
territory, as it seemed, behind a door marked “Detox
Intake”... about the racing heart, the inward violence,
despair thrashing crazily in a bottomless, vast lake of
peace that maddeningly would not swallow it —
serenity that would not yield....

And, Memory, allow me never to entirely forget the
brisk, efficient kindness of the human hands that
brought a blanket; tired eyes yet bright with hope that
read my vital signs; exhausted voices — gravelly with
having been pressed into shouting for ten-and-one
half-going-on-eleven brutal hours in a facility both
understaffed and overcrowded — that still could ask
with genuine compassion, Are you having thoughts of
suicide? Remind me, Memory, of that sudden and
eternal and surprising certainty: I didn’t want to die.

And then release me, Memory of mine, from history
back into life, the bliss that is this very minute, warm
and glorious with sunlight and the possibility,
however slight, of thunderstorms.

Great Big Prayer

Being a Seed

I am a seed that swells with earth and water.
Though my shell is hard enough to break your
teeth on, time and melting snow accomplish what
exertion never could. I am a seed that would do
nothing but to heed my longing, ancient, deep,

beyond my understanding.

I am a seed that has no memory of being planted
in this fertile land. Safe and secure, I hug my
sturdy skin around me, grateful in my tiny
burrow when the winds with frigid fury wail an
inch, no more, above. Protected and content, I rest
until awakened by the thaw that never fails to
come in season. Buried, waiting, I can feel the
change in how the planet breathes, with each
unhurried exhalation warmer till the snow
recedes, the stony ground relents and softens.
Only then do I expend the energy I hoarded
through the winter... only when the elements
cooperate and not before. I neither labor nor
procrastinate, nor do I push against the soil... it
parts for me if I am patient, just as if it were the
Sea of Reeds and I were Moses bound for Canaan.

I am a seed and more... a dainty-leaved acacia,
lavish hyacinth, a lilac bush, a rose... What do I
care, now that I know the tender sweetness of the
sunwashed air at evening here beside an age-old
forest? I have seen the jeweled curtain of the night
sky and observed as one by one the stars winked
out like servants, dutiful and self-effacing in the
slow euphoria of dawn. For certain, the Almighty
is creating me as beautiful, as useful, and as
strong.

Terrified of Bliss

Angels with the Blessed Virgin -- Botticelli



 A PRAYER TO MY ANGELS



O ye angels, fly to me
and lift me out to sea, above
the waves that rest but never sleep
while there is work undone.
Perhaps the sea’s an angel too;
it has the timeless job to do
of cleansing this untidy earth
and birthing it anew.

Galatea — Raphael

O ye angels, carry me
upon thy wings, a brief escape,
then stay a bit, I beg of thee,
and help me concentrate.
My mind, it likes to creep away;
in vain I order it to stay
and serve the purpose I’m about;
but it’s gone out to play.


O ye angels, lend thy power
to my responsibilities;
I seek the effort of an hour
before my labors cease.
I have no gold to save or spend,
nor do I want thine, angel friends;
instead I need thine energy
when lethargy begins.


At last, ye angels, when the task
is finished and the cottage neat,
I’ll have but one more boon to ask:
my prayers lay at God’s feet.

THE JOY OF THE LIGHT OF GOD



Alleluias rolled from the east



What are we waiting for? Why do we

hesitate? For here and plain as dawn

when every demon of the night has

fled, we see the joy of the light

of God. We need only step out of

the mist—no odyssey have we

to undertake or foe pursue, no

secrets to discover. There is only love to

be accepted, met with gratitude... now

only happiness to claim. Anxiety, regret

and shame—these were the evils

that evaporated as we watched. No

sooner were they gone than Alleluias

sweet and strong rolled from the east

and would have swept us off our feet

and carried us aloft, had we not clung

to earth, so terrified of bliss we are if it

should cost surrender of the shreds

of skin we still identify as “us.” The

lungs, the bones, contorted hands

and feet; the pain, disease, decay are

us, we say? As if God meant us to be

temporary, having used up our

allotted days, too old and slow to

overtake the measured plodding step

of entropy. But we are woven of a

better fabric, one that grows more

durable with wear and time and testing.

Still we hesitate, though faith has been

replaced by certainty.

St. Francis of Assisi with Al Kamil -- 15th century

With reluctance mixed with fascination

do we draw a little nearer, inches at a time.

We cringe when light falls full upon us

and the unfamiliar frightens us. We are

accustomed to the cold, the dark, and sink

into delirium as we might fall upon a rotting

pallet in a beggar’s squalid inn, when our

soul’s comfort and security, clarity of sight,

the soundness of the body, heart repaired

and spirit whole are certain, not mysterious

as once they were, remote, the whisper

of a promise too ethereal to tempt the

desperate, the wanderers in need of solid

benefits, of food and shelter. Isn’t it more

sensible to hesitate? God isn’t going anywhere.

 LOVE STICKS

Love comes later, in the wake of pain,
like rescue after piracy. Sometimes the

buccaneers escape with their ill-gotten
gains and damn the bodies and the sailors
who survived. These are forgotten or
outshone by treasure seized according to the
code of honor thieves and brigands go by.

Guardian angels

I have love. Sometimes I keep it chained but it escapes eventually. The chase is
futile. I pursue it anyway, at
least to see where it alights. I’ve little
hope of catching it but I can sabotage
attachment anyway until it flickers
out of sight.


Both love and I know which of us is wiser,
stronger, and more patient. Truth be told,
I’d really rather give the game up, let love
lead, but ego won’t permit me to, not
yet at any rate, though soon, I’ll wager.
It feeds on my weakness, and I’m weary
now, as one becomes from filibustering.
Its loyalty is oddly given, not bestowed where I would choose. It forms unsuitable
alliances and clings tenaciously. I
win, it says and flashes me a saucy
grin, and so do you. It’s only face you
lose. I’ll get it back to you.


Love is like a tireless suitor, one who
could have gone away for good but stays to
tease me, plays a waiting game. I
wonder if it plans to catch me up in
some transgression. Hardly likely, as it’s
had a million chances. Still it sticks as if to
lure me, which is curious. It surely knows
I don’t deserve it.