Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I can't get the middle lines of this poem out of my head. All day long, I've let myself be guided by this idea of a living prayer. The idea that awareness of the life around us is a prayer, that letting the earth catch us when we fall is the prayer is so powerful. Today has been like a roller coaster of changed plans of yes's that turned into no's and vice versa; the prayer is where I put my attention. Did I do the next thing that I wanted to do? Did I take the next action that felt right? Today, I can gratefully say that I did on this Tuesday, October 24, 2017--the only one I'll get--in my one wild and precious life!
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