WORDS MISSING

[Continuing]

Worship is a way of seeing the world in the light of God.

~Abraham Joshua Heschel

Of course, he would never be able to remember all of them exactly as they had been arranged. As he re-settled into his routines, the irritation remained. Sketch a man picking his thumbnails.

He had dialed her number twice on his cell phone while drinking French roast at Anthony's, while sitting comfortably at his station. Each time he hung up, flipping the phone closed and putting it back into his tweed sport coat.

It was that he had already allowed himself back up on the horse. He was already letting himself intend each fresh word for a new essay. The new dream had commenced and that meant much to him, very much. Would he call it: Praying into Practice? He wasn't sure, nor did he need to bother himself upfront, as to its title.

After the disappointment of his earlier essay being rejected by the Journal, this felt pristine. Actually if he wasn't one of those people who didn't generally talk a certain way, he would've told you that it felt anointed given how strangely the thoughts had shown up, the uncharted nature of their territory.

These were the missing words. These were the ones written on the pages of the spiral notebook that were now absent from its binding. Did Laura really have them? Would he ever ask?

*

By grace, every person's prayer essentially prays itself into being. It prays itself to life, pressing one's heart to open fully, ensuring also to procure the imaginations full willingness such that it can give itself, by faith, to the strongest extent possible, every power of illustration and movement. Each prayer seeks what it wishes to manifest and the wisest of mystics and sages suggest its fulfillment grants what all faith traditions have intoned from the beginning: We become what we long for.

A movie plays, we sense and see life in the light of God, producing soul-visions of the very life we desire in and with the divine, moment by moment, right before your eyes. We pray on earth all that is in heaven. We are revealers who are shown, we are seekers who know what we are after. Though the name is unbearably redactive, nevertheless it can, perhaps even must be named: Paradisaic Intentionality.

Perhaps some have in the past called it Kingdom Prayer. But who on earth anymore knows what a kingdom is or wants to, given what hierarchy itself has wrought throughout each of the bloodstrewn miseries of religious violence spanning human history?

It is what I call: Wonder Work… Edenic Walking; Willing our full selves forward prayerfully in an intentional manner. It is prayer-creating attendance to life and its flow from blessing to blessing, deep crying out to deep.  The endeavor places a blazing coal to the lips granting speech, giving power to words that can birth that one blessed sigh, the gaze of understanding, a tender touch of healing.

What it sees, becomes real, each thought an invitation to manifestation.

It can grant the smell of bacon or the sight of bright orange juice in a glass at the breakfast table. Through sorrow it sorrows, works any necessary pain or grief as clay. 

It is trained in the joy of birds and the turning of clouds.  It is play, it is deep breathing, it is connected time. Time for compassionate connection.  Moon-watching.  Glory-stepping.  Heart-listening.

Paradisaic intentionality happens by initiating and sustaining the conscious manifestation of communion, with Life and with all who are living… through love… in the present moment… by the spirit, thoroughly attending to whatever the liberated and trustful imagination, the healed and playful heart, might spill forth… 

It can be practiced and effective. It can be a chosen action of love and devotion. Who knows what it could do? God knows and we can make ourselves, through it, more wholly available to God and to others.

We would be trained for wonder.

*

Waiting for a red light, just about ready to drop off his final passenger for the evening, he still felt the fidget. 

There was a spattering of rain. Clouds hung low through the city. High-rises disappeared into mist at the darkening of evening.

It still felt strange to remember it as a once-happening event but also something that was still seeping out in terms of its purposes and meanings, with even some new specifics trickling in, now even well beyond the initial encounter.

As he was trying to explain to Zoe now back in the apartment, at first it did not feel like a speech or a definition or a lecture or an explanation… It was as though he sat within the sense of the prayer he would only later attempt to speak about.

There was what happened. There was the first writing down which occurred those few days after. Without the pages there was no toehold.

He wanted the words in front of him. They were not available, of course.

Later on he would try to find the notebook to see what material might've come after and whether or not it could grant any satisfaction for the time being. All he remembered was Laura's enthusiasm and the fun it was to explain this inexplicable prayer dream. Now it was feeling like more of a chore, like it meant something to get clear about, what was here to be learned or shared.

The Cubs were on against Cleveland and despite a few recent losses he didn't mind unwinding with a game. Two outs in the third with a runner on second. No score.  A blaring Cymbalta commercial.

He sipped his scotch. Someone out on the street was beeping for a friend to hurry up and get somewhere.

Zoe was wrapped up near his feet in front of the leather chair. You know they've lost three in a row, she said.

How about you stick with meow every now and then… You're going to jinx them.