I used to pray for days like these. Days wherein waking up was filled with joy and wonder. Days that embraced my desire to be in love with the fleeting moments. Days in which afternoons slowly took over the beginning hours of the day before leading gently back into restful nurturance. Sundays are especially good for showing up as wholly holy remembrance.
I used to pray for moments like these. Moments that my baby initiates cuddles and begs for kisses. Whining for my touch. And while I often find myself lost in trying to keep up, I can’t forget, I prayed for this.
I used to pray for loving community. Community that lifts and doesn’t let up. Community that creates space when they can, and holds boundaries for themselves (and me) when they must. Openly providing graceful respect for healthy communication and growth as a learning mother, a forgiving daughter, a caring friend.
I used to pray for inspiration. For words to flow out of me and creativity to flow through me. For the spirit to guide me closer to those who can help understand this life and these bodies through practices that remind us of romance. Realistic romance. These days, I am overwhelmed with the amount of breath that fills my lungs and, in turn, leaves them empty. I am amazed at the abundance of impermanence, the swift navigation of this catalyst for understanding.
I used to pray for love like this. For trust that leads me to allow life to take control, to let my feelings help me decide what is next. Without judgement. Without naïveté.
I used to pray for life to become lighter. For life to be less strict. For routines to be more like rituals. For love to be more free. For thoughts to be less harsh. I used to pray for you. I used to pray for me. I do.
For years, my journal entries have ended with the prayer that has become the ending of every post on this publication:
THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
Abby xx