I Pray. Willingly.
Never thought I'd get to this point. I was coerced into praying when I was a wee lad. I learned the "Hail Mary," and "Our Father." Classics in the Catholic tradition. I do remember them. I remember going to confession and being assigned a number of "Hail Marys" and "Our Fathers" to atone for my sins. I kneeled in the church pew and prayed. I didn't like it. It always seemed like a game, a sham, a little joke. Even that little wee lad suspected something was up. Like I was being fooled, being a fool.
I can recite those old prayers. But they are like old pop hits, think "Sugar, Sugar" or "Sweet Caroline," sequences of words burned into my consciousness that I don't really like, that I no longer sing or recite.
No. I don't pray the classics. After years of meditating I offer up my own homemade ditties. What do I pray for?
Peace. Love. Happiness. A good lunch. Sunny day. A better future. $. All the best for those I care about. Justice. Karma. Good will. Health.
And who do I pray to?
The Wind. The Trees. The Day. The Great What's It!? The Cosmic Giggle. The Void. The Darkness. The Light.
It's a kind of a simple, meager, thing; praying. But what the hell. It can't hurt, right?!
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