More than the Slightest Ways (New Poem by Polly Castor)
Words and thoughts may be only the slightest ways to pray.
Words and thoughts may be only the slightest ways to pray.
All prayers– even the wild and savage ones– point to the one recurring response: Yes, its always love.
Let all that and infinitely more surge through you. Let that govern your being. Let that sustain you through it all. Let that determine your destiny.
When, in the cavern darkness, Jesus
opened his small, bleating mouth (even before his eyes widened to the supple world his lungs had sighed into being), did he intuit how hungrily the lungs gasp?
These still December mornings
I fancy I live in a clear envelope of angels like a cellophane womb. Or a soap bubble, the colors drifting, curling.
Love relentlessly, she said, and I want to slip these two words into every cell in my body, not the sound of the words, but the truth of them…
God is a joiner, like a carpenter, splicing together mitered corners, with flush, beautiful transitions, meeting together just right.
Let your feelings of inadequacy melt into adrenaline-charged obedience. Your convulsive little ego must not be given reign.
I was so excited by it, I thought you needed to know about it as well1
We said, what if makin’ was like light itself,
Spreadin’ through the room, no shelf, no self.
The opposite of old is not young. The opposite of old is new.
Not easy to hear the soft chant of my breath with the rumble of river nearby.
All that is eternal in me welcomes the wonder of this day…