Four Meditations on Prayer

No Answer

You kneel, or sit, or close your eyes.
It makes no difference.

The room stays as it is
chair, table, light going on
without instruction.

You begin speaking inward,
to the one who answers back
in your own phrases,
your own small turns of hope.

Nothing interrupts.
No voice arrives from elsewhere.
Only the familiar drift
of sentences you have used before,
worn smooth by need.

It feels like movement
because words are moving.
It feels like help
because you are listening.

But outside, the day proceeds
unconsulted.

Cars pass.
Someone locks a door.
A man lifts a box, sets it down.

And here, inside,
you continue the exchange
no one can refuse,
no one can confirm,

mistaking the echo
for reply.

Practice

Go on, then. Close your eyes.
Assume the posture.

Address the vacancy
as if it held a name.

You know the voice that answers.
It is yours,
with the edges softened,
made patient,
made wise.

You ask.
You wait just long enough
to feel it count.

Then grant yourself
a measured kindness,
a sentence that sounds
like it came from elsewhere.

Nothing has altered.
The chair remains a chair.
The hour goes on spending you.

But there is a faint relief
in having performed it,
as if some ledger
has been quietly adjusted.

Outside, the world proceeds
without your appeal.

Inside, you rehearse approval
in a language no one hears,
no one answers,

and call it answer.

Devotion

By all means, begin.
Fold your hands.
Lower your head
to the appropriate angle of sincerity.

Address the ceiling,
or better, the agreeable echo
you keep behind your eyes.

He is always available.
He speaks your language fluently,
shares your conclusions,
admires your restraint.

Ask for guidance.
Pause, just long enough
to stage its arrival.

There it is.
Remarkably aligned
with what you already wanted.

Record the moment
as progress.

Nothing else will register it.
The clock continues its theft.
The room declines to intervene.

But you have done your part.
You have spoken inward
with ceremonial gravity,
mistaking rehearsal
for rescue.

Outside, the day remains unimpressed.

Inside, the conversation thrives,
limitless, unchallenged,

perfectly agreed upon.

Quiet Time

Set aside a minute.
Adopt the face of someone being listened to.

Address your invisible companion,
that well-trained friend from childhood
who never quite moved out,
only took on better vocabulary.

He is attentive, of course.
He has your timing, your taste,
your way of arriving, eventually,
at what you had in mind.

Ask for strength.
Ask for signs.
Ask for whatever sounds respectable.

Then wait, with a look of effort,
while nothing interrupts
the careful manufacture of reply.

There it is.
Clear, reassuring,
uncannily familiar.

You thank him.
It feels productive.
Like posting a thought
and liking it yourself.

Meanwhile, the world
keeps its distance.
Things happen without consultation.
Doors close. Weather turns.

But you have checked in.
You have maintained the relationship.

And he, dependable as ever,
has agreed with you again.