I once found it comforting and reassuring to pray. It felt nice to think that someone was actually listening to what went through my mind. I was not alone; I had a serious companion who heard me. I even thought that there might be some kind of effect from my praying. It might actually change the course of natural events, make someone get well or have a safe trip. Perhaps burglars would not break in because I had put in the proper request. Maybe someone smiled because I acknowledged their greatness.
I don’t do much of that any more, even though I occasionally lapse back into reaching out with words to an unseen presence. For me, to be aware is to pray. I pray to the bus driver when I feel and acknowledge his presence. I almost fall down on the floor of the bus and touch my worshiping forehead to the floor when someone passes by down the isle of the bus.
I pray to the hard, cold bathroom counter and honor its presence. I greet the flowing shower water with praying reverence. I pray to the carpet as I push my breathing face against it while doing morning stretches. My whole body is an act of prayer as my bell vibrates and bathes me in its sound. My feet touch the pavement of Hennepin Avenue, and I pray to the whole world I feel below me.
I ask for nothing except to be able to be present. I do not seek to change or affect how things turn out, only to be a reverent witness. I do not try to make suffering go away or avoid it, only to absorb and become one with it. I don’t aspire to remove the suffering of others, only to join them.
My relationship with praying has changed. But if someone would ever ask me, “Do you pray?” I would most certainly say “Yes”. My whole body would shout, “Of course.”