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I’m praying now. For an spiritually-confused person like myself, prayer comes easily. I just cover all the bases. Today I’m praying for a friend who was put in a medically-induced hypothermic state. I don’t know why, because I only learned about it on Facebook, and her family didn’t say, but I looked it up and the reasons one might have that done sound horrible and the percentages aren’t good. So I pray. I do believe in prayer. It makes sense to me, because I know that as we have thoughts, energy moves from cell to cell, and that movement must generate something in the universe, somehow. It has an effect on our internal processes and that much we know for fact. Lowers our blood pressure and what not. So, it stands to reason that it has some external purpose too.

By happenstance I listened to Bob Dylan’s “Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie” today, and also we’ve talked a lot about loss at school lately. Actually, we are constantly talking about loss at school, and I think I’ll play this for them at last light this week (last light is where we get together and reflect before putting the stinky kids to bed):

Bob Dylan is both a poet’s songster and a poet. I don’t identify with people who don’t recognize that fact. The images are a little weird, but this is exactly what I think we humans do with our emotions. We make stuff. Best I figure, that’s why we are here. So, a Saturday prayer.

A Prayer for Elle

Dear God and Gods, Dear Goddesses and Muses, Dear blanketing pulses and tremors, Dear pinking of sunset, Dear uni and multi, dear verses and galaxies and like-minded folk. Dear people with spells in them, dear children laughing at bubbles, dear action potential and cell-firings, dear neurons and red giants, and silkworms and figure eights on the frozen pond and leaves windblown, and pure sweet doubt and summits and valleys and rivers and trout and grandmas, dear age and rock and water, dear artists and magma,

dear, dear everyone,

Please help.

Dear mother, dear infant with milk breath, dear equine eyes and goats’ eyes and cats’ and fish, help her now with that ancient light, help her with the big fast colors of this land, we beg on our knees the same as praying, this is what we ask.

Help, please. Please help.

Dear shantih, dear roots that grow down the creekside, dear moss and invertebrates, let us entreat with the imperative ants and wasps, I lend all my thoughts to the water now, lend all my thoughts to the mountain and its animals, please, let’s all think now,

on help.

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Hope is not such a bad thing. Where do you look for it? Happy Saturday, poemhearts. I used to sing this one to D1 at bedtime:

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