sunday psalm

Come holy mystery - Come messy art -Come lingering kisses - Come untamed heart

Photo by Ravi Pinisetti on Unsplash

I don't know if I am actually a poet.  I am not sure if any of what I write is really poetry.  Maybe I don’t don’t care what it is called anymore. Maybe I'm just a person who writes my most desperate intentions, places them into glass bottles and then throws them into the tide hoping that an angel will come and rescue me from this island I feel stranded on.


Maybe these words are all simply prayers.  Maybe they are all just an endless litany of my hopes and fears. Maybe I am not a poet.  Maybe my existence is a long form prayer.  Maybe that's what all life is meant to be - an unfolding invocation of awe and a call to embrace every second of this wild runaway train we are all riding on at the same time.  

“I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God. It changes me.”

― C.S. Lewis

I like to think that every prayer is an invitation for hope to come and make a home in our heart.  It's possible that my prayers will never reach a divine shore...but it doesn't matter because whenever I write them down I can feel my heart start to float and bump into my ribs.  

Here is the poem/prayer/psalm I wrote for myself late late late last night while my nighttime anxieties chewed on the tips of my toes.     

Each word is an invitation to the Great Love to stir inside of me.   Each word of this changes me.  Maybe Mr. Lewis was right....