May 30, 2019

Prayer

“Waves rise from water. Flames arise from fire. Rays emanate from the sun.

So do you and I shine forth from the Mysterious One.”

—Vijnana Bhairava Tantra, no. 87

I had to stop praying for a long time. I recognized something in the energy of the prayers I was saying that, despite beautiful, inspired words like “Thy will be done” or “Make me an instrument of thy peace,” felt like a continued step away from God rather than toward. This is the same energy that called me to stop meditating for a time. I felt like I was reinforcing a sense of working to get somewhere rather than being where I was. Basically, these concepts of prayer and meditation felt immature and I had outgrown them to the point where they were causing me pain, much like trying to wear and walk for miles in a pair of shoes that I wore when I was eight years old.

What does my former way of praying feel like?

My traditional interaction with prayer feels like it reinforces a sense of separation between a “me” and a “god.” It feels like a form of schizophrenia, a smaller personality or side of ego asking another bigger idea (God) that my mind has made up, both concepts which the brain has to support and feed. It feels like mind talking to mind, very much in my head, usually ignoring the felt sense of the body, the deepest peace of the heart, the usually calm space surrounding me, and beyond.

When all is said and done, it feels like a distraction from the direct experience that the One, God, Life is calling me to in that moment. It is the absolute slightest movement away, but when I ask, “God, help me see…” or “God, grant me…,” I feel as though I am ignoring that which is directly with me, already available to be seen or that which has already been granted. Perhaps when others pray, they are praying to see what is already present. Perhaps at times I was too, but I seldom sat in silence long enough after the communication to come into that sense of feeling blessed by the present.

Today, prayer has morphed into a conscious, merging dance with the divine, rather than an asking to be allowed to enter the dance, which is what it felt like before. These days, it feels like leaning fully into the current experience of the senses, slowing down enough to feel every breath or foot step, the wind on my face, the sound of the birds, the vibrating tingle of energy in my palms. It is setting aside time to wander aimlessly through my environment with curiosity and awe, much like a toddler. Sometimes I am silent and listening to all the sound around me. Other times, sounds, noises, growls, music, gibberish, or playful breath come through. Previously, the language surrounding prayer tripped me so much that I finally felt called, when I started to pray again, to pear down the language as much as possible. Now, when speech comes, it feels like individual words that come out of the silent deep, words that are removed from time and scrubbed clean of “me” and “you,” which helps to dissolve the sense of separateness:

“Here.”

“Now.”

“Greatest will done by this body/mind.”

“Open heart.”

Sometimes it comes like questions such as “What would this moment be like if there wasn’t trying energy present? Or waiting energy?” followed by gentle and innocent curiosity.

All seeds planted, then allowed to settle and watered in receptive silence.

I used to use prayer to call me back to God. Somewhere along the line I was encouraged by the question: “Why not forget completely the fairy tale that I am, that we are, even the smallest bit separate from God?” Now, when the urge to pray comes, it feels like a remembering and quiet celebration of what I truly am (expand), what we truly are (closer), what this life truly is (closer still), rather than a reunion with that which I aspire to be.

These kinds of actions, I have found, are ways to remember. This is the reactivation of prayer.

No matter how we enter into that reactivation, once that remembrance has taken place, prayer takes its proper place in every seemingly-mundane activity: walking down the street, giving someone my full attention, cooking a meal, driving in my car listening to music. That energy is also present when I feel uncomfortable, feel resistance toward something, or want to run away. The directive has been “Pray unceasingly.” When the definition of prayer was allowed to grow and expand, what was seen was that prayerful energy wanted to overflow into and consume all aspects of life. More often these days, I am able to “lose myself” in that invitation. Certainly not always, but even in moments when “I” am “not praying” or “not there,” there is a sense that the greatest part of “me” is. Always.