.            .            .so, do you
P               R               A               Y.            .            .
HOW?
Head Bowed
Eyes Closed
Silently
Out Loud
With Music
With People
IN A CLOSET.            .            .
Think on this as Ellen Bass’s Poem tingles you brain cells as it drips into your soul:

PRAY FOR PEACE
Ellen Bass

Pray to whomever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the bo tree in scorching heat,
Adonai, Allah. Raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekhina, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work.
On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus,
for everyone riding buses all over the world.
Drop some silver and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latte and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

To Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, pray.
Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already prayer.
Skin, and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile cases we are poured into.

If you’re hungry, pray. If you’re tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else’s legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheelchair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer as the earth revolves:
less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail,
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, twirling pizzas–

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your Visa card. Scoop your holy water
from the gutter. Gnaw your crust.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

Which bubbled this up inside of me
and now maybe you.          .          .

Bowing the head
gently
not tightly closing the eyes
as if you were greeting sleep
a few breaths away
and not strongly
squinting out the first rays
of a new day
Don’t pray that way
Wide eyed
head held high and firm
Blinkless
Offer up not what a mouth
can whisper
But a heart shouts
Full vibrato
To not make your needs known
But your promises
Powerfully Claimed
Humbly Received
Gratefully accepted
Pray that way
Not with a softend amen
But an exalted hurrah
and don’t blink
for fear of missing
the something
that compares to nothing 
in this world
or the one
seemingly unfolding 
before us all
especially if it’s 
unlabeled
Psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst:
WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A PRAYER
BE
ONE
(The only true prayer you’ll ever really need is the one 
YOU ARE

I’ve always thought that
THE HOLY
was never a Place
so much as
A PERSON
and more intimately. . .
Y O U
and from that came
THIS:

I went to Church
it wasn’t Church-ing

I went to the Playground
it was no longer a ground for play

I went to the Movies
they weren’t movie-ing

I went to the Show
it wasn’t showing
I went to the Concert Hall
it had been silently hall’ed away
I went to the Park
it was prohibitedly parked

I went to the Mall
it had indefinitely been mall’ed shut
I went to the Store
it had been mostly stored away
I went Home
it had been homed sheltered up
and though familiar 
so utterly unrecognizable 
and then
Then I journeyed in
to a cavern
to a nook
to a creaky cranny 
I seldom visit
And there
t h e r e
was the holy
an altar not often knelt before
a communion rarely shared
a hymn not yet sung
a litany never recited
a homily vaguely strange
(maybe imagined)
a benediction
challenging to go forth
and make a difference 
while urging me to stay
and know a sacred distinction
May be
(be it may)
that what’s Holy
is THAT which is
WHOLLY 
ME
Perfectly Imperfect
ME
Ahhhhhhhhhhh
Christmas, Easter, New Year’s Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, Eid Al-Fitr, Eid Al-Adha, Diwali, Holi, Vesak, Parinirvana Day, Chinese New Year’s
At Once
Wholly
Holy
In Me

H   O   L   D   I   N   G          S   P   A   C   E

I’ve been doing Hospice since Halloween 1994;

I didn’t know it on October 31, 1994 on my very first Monday at working there.

Actually I was scared to death

(NO    PUN    INTENDED)

I had just turned in my resignation at Westlake Christian Church two weeks prior to starting at Hospice and I had no idea what I decision,

what   Life Path   I had just entered.

Instead of thinking about T H A T, 

I was petrified that I had taken about a 40% cut in pay to take this job with five kids and a wife who’s paid nothing to pricelessly make sure everything ran smoothly on a budget that would have a homeless man poorer. . . .

I was worried.      .      .

and ohhhhhh how I was so even more

u  n  k  n  o  w  i  n  g

It didn’t take me many Monday’s in Hospice to figure out what it took to

H  o  l  d       S  p  a  c  e

It’s not just providing that beautiful thing we call

P    R    E    S    E    N    C    E

Holding Space  is something so very much more than that.

It’s shutting out the world,

shutting out all of the stories,

both your anthologies as well as the Compendium

of all or any  ONE  particular patient.

It’s sacred space.      .      .very, very consecrated.

h   o   l   y.

The film clip above is long by our very bored,

show-me-something-right-now-or-I’ll-stop-watching-standards.

Watch it.      .      .

It  IS LONG  and it’s difficult to watch with the spanish and not so correct captions.      .      .

but watch it.      .      .

stop right now and watch it over again

and know just by showing up,

just by being there in  that held space  there is nothing

no         t h i n g

you’ll find anymore sacral.       .       .

no            t h i n g.

He asked to see me a few weeks ago

I had only met him once before when he was at an inpatient facility.

He asked his wife to call me and set an appointment.

He was weak and lethargic and could barely stay away during our visit.

 I asked if it would be alright if I would stop by again the following week.

He said he would like that.

 His wife asked if he wanted to talk about anything else before I left.

He shook his head no.

She said, “But wonder if when Chuck comes back you can’t talk?”

He opened his eyes and looked into mine.

It was seconds.       .       .

a moment.          .          .special.

He reached out for my hand and I held his in both of mine.

“Then, ” I said.      .      .

“Then we’ll have a conversation just like this,”

I told him squeezing his hand between the two of   mine.

He shook his head slowly,

UP and Down in a gesture of  Y E S.

He didn’t know,

but IN THAT MOMENT OF HELD SPACE,

I made him feel what I’ve come to know countless times over since October 31, 1994:

The best conversations are the ones that usually use NO WORDS; 

.    .    .that convey what a heart shouts and a mouth can’t begin to whisper.   .   .   .

we held space.

I called to set up another visit with him and hadn’t gotten the message that he had died just the night before.

We–his wife and I–

spoke about what a special visit it had been just a few days before

and how he had died in peace, comfortably with his mother, wife and some very close bedside him.      .      .

h  o  l  d  i  n  g       s  p  a  c  e

That we all might hold space.       .       .

That we all might have space held for us

one   sanctified   moment