Sometimes, perhaps, the question,
what is prayer? Am I missing
something too precious, not to know of?
Don’t ask. Instead,
peel a potato; scrub a carrot;
find there, prayer –
all your senses, all your faculties,
seeking the very source of things;
finding their own source;
focussed to a fine fine point
on knowledge; consciousness; and bliss;
and love; let’s not forget the love;
that’s prayer. Standing very still by
the childbed, the marriage bed, or the deathbed –
your whole being concentrated in a fine fine point;
so many perfections found to be
in so many perfect places,
in so many moments out of passing time.
And in the stillness after action,
prayer was there before you sought.
You were always prayer.
[after a thought from Plotinus]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.