Quiet Reflections and Prayers
I began to listen
to life —
to show up
and listen
to what was around me,
perhaps as our ancestors
once listened —
before all the noise.
And so I began
to listen
a little more deeply —
not analyzing each sound,
but waiting for the music
to continue,
noticing my own part
within in it
and outside of it.
And I couldn’t imagine
it being any other way.
Words appear
out of the desire
to somehow reflect
the complete surrender
of trying
to express and comprehend
the unspoken connection
to the natural source
of peace
within my heart
and yours.
But my prayers have
no words at all.
I vowed to continue on —
to take each step
in faith,
rooted firmly
in my heart,
unattached to the need
for outer relief —
holding my ground
in all situtions —
not always quiet,
not needing
to be right
or good enough
or even noticed —
simply playing my part
as it unfolded.
And there was
a beautiful silence
within my heart
I wouldn’t ever try
to fill again.
And so I entered
a state of prayer —
each time a little
more fully
as life continued,
as I continued on
within its mysterious dance —
as thoughts
and feelings appeared
as movements in some
forgotten symphony —
arranging themselves
and landing again
in the most
beautiful silence
that no one movement
could express.
There was a quiet
holding and letting go —
the remembrance
of events now seen
as part of
the great mystery —
no longer needing
to figure out —
no longer grieving
what was given up —
not needing anything
to be different.
Just this.
I have gathered thoughts
and tossed them
many times —
following the words
again and again
all the way back
to silence.
I have waited patiently
for insight —
only to watch it fade.
I have gone
my own way,
taken each step
as a part
of the mystery.
I have gotten lost
and found
many treasures.
I have traced my
own Self
back to nothing.
And I am
still here.
The time came
to find a gentler way,
to turn back
from the path of mind —
retracing my steps
just a little.
…
At first it felt
a bit lonely,
as there seemed to be
fewer taking this turn.
And I admit I missed
the crowds at times
and the paved roads
and maps.
…
But as I walked this
strangely familiar path
unfolding in front of me,
I began to remember
what it felt like
to walk on the earth,
to be free to notice
and allow my attention
to fall where it liked,
to experience the world
around me
and inside of me
without a constant
narrating mind.
…
And sure enough,
just as I had guessed,
I was okay
in this place —
where everything was
as it had been —
feelings and sensations
and challenges
and thoughts.
But without the narrator,
without the constant story,
they had taken on a
lighter feel,
softened somehow —
along this path
of the heart.
When what is in my heart
and yours
has gotten lost, somehow,
in translation,
may we have courage
to hold steady —
letting go and trusting
in all that can’t
be spoken.
May the words
that come back
be firmly rooted
in this place.
Amen
Let the noise
within
be quieted,
just enough —
that we may hear
our own quiet prayers
and know
without doubt
that we could never be
apart.
Amen
I hold this silent prayer
for the times
when we feel small,
when we fail
to reach past
all that seems to stand
between us —
that we may remember
to reach again
and to trust
that our silent prayers
are always spoken
and heard —
even when we forget.
Amen
Laurie's Notes 