Dear God

Dear God . . .

Wait. The God part feels debatable, but the Dear, that’s not what’s going on. We aren’t close like that. Let’s start over.

To whom it may concern . . .

I can really look in only two directions to find you. To find it. To find anything.

Inward.

I feel. I think. (I am?) I know.

I feel pain. I feel joy. I feel gratitude. I feel loneliness. I feel betrayed. I feel guilt. I feel shame. I feel wonder. I feel peace. I feel judgment. I feel the stress lurking outside every breath, waiting for my eyelids to part. I love. I long. I hunger. I feel my feet on the floor and my legs on the seat and my back just touching the rails of this chair. My fingers type on the keys, little square blocks of words and sentences and run-ons and fragments and a fortress of written solitude.

Solitude. What is this I’m building, writing, whispering as the tap, click, rest mutters next to my empty coffee mug and the sounds of an impatient dog rattle from the corner? What is this even? What is a prayer? Who am I praying to?

(I think . . . )

I pray to solitude. I pray to everything. I pray to the nothing I see inside.

I think prayer, like a song or speech or letter can be inspired. I’m probably praying to whoever inspires that stuff.

I’ve heard it said that the act of creation is an act for the creator. It’s about the experience of creating . . .

. . . of listening, observing in the moment, noticing the whispers and gestures of the otherwise indetectable Muse . . . and from there you create . . . the feeling of transcribing and translating inspiration into your own creation, your own appropriation of whatever the upline Creator left for you to see, the next chapter in The Story of Creation is yours to write for You . . . until You release it out into the world to turn the next inspired ear into the next inspired Creator of a new moment, a new observation, a new wave in the ocean of creation . . .

So how ironic would it be if the Creator we’re all praying to created for Herself first and for us as an afterthought, never to listen to a single prayer uttered in return to an unread inbox of infinity?

I think my prayers more than I feel them. Long story short, I pray in parenthesis.

I suppose the source of the prayer is more important than its destination. A message in a bottle is a message all the same.

I am? Who knows.

I know nothing.

Outward

There is the universe all around me. Every detail, every cardinal, every aroma, every wall, every step, every blade of grass and dewy spider web, every swell of air, every streetlight and star cluster and the infinite loneliness of crowded celestial space.

And there is no one and everyone to inspire, to hear, to create.

Where are you, God? I don’t care, I guess. Thank you for the inspiration. Thank you for who becomes You and creates again. Thank you for letting me Create a minute in the interim.

Amen.