Prayer is not a thing to get done,
but rather a coming undone —
letting go of all the handholds
we cling to so tightly,
feeling our bodies pull away
from the cliff face we’re scaling.
It is being certain that
uncertainty can’t kill us,
and that getting to the top
is not true victory anyway.
Prayer is coming undone
alone
and together
until all we have are eyes
for the miraculous.
Yesterday I was sitting in church when a few words of poetry floated into my brain…in Turkish. It took me a moment to realize that I had just began my first poem in Turkish! I immediately opened the notes app on my phone and began tapping down the words (insert sheepish comment about not paying attention in church here). I’m not saying it’s perfect or beautiful or even good at all really in Turkish (thought I definitely owe credit to my friend Didem who helped me with editing), but I still feel something indescribable right now. I feel like Turkey and my life here has wound its way deeply into my heart. Something feels different. Good. Mystical. Like home. Here’s my poem, along with a photo I took last year of my brother and his wife.
Here’s a translation in English, although it doesn’t really sound the same to me…I didn’t think of these words in English first, so it’s kinda funny to hear them like this.
I’m alone, I said.
You said, I’m here.
I’m so afraid, I said.
You said, I will never abandon you.
I have no strength, I said.
You said, There is strength in weakness.
I have no one, I said.
You said, I am yours.
My spirit is weary, I said.
You said, Come, I will give you peace.
Ok, ok, I said. But do you love me?
You said, My darling, don’t you know?
You are a part of me.
I love with with all that I have.
We walk among parallel trees,
our feet beating patterns in the same soft earth.
Yet peering at your distant peaks my heart leaps –
imagining with joy that day that I’ll reach you,
unaware that there is no reaching you
because you are already here,
in these trees,
in this earth,
in this place
where I now
am standing.
Whatever is most precious to you –
that wildly beating heart
in the alcoves of your soul –
bring it to me,
lay it before me,
and let’s gaze on it together.
Why do you tremble,
as if I would uncreate
what is already complete?
No, my child:
I have longed for you since creation.
The leaf of a weed
beautiful in death,
or is its life just arrested,
like me in this moment,
petrified by hushed silence,
fingers of fear
melting, wrapping, squeezing?
Ready acceptance of the present,
colors not even yet dulled,
but all I feel is suffocated,
tricked by perfect stillness,
trapped by encroaching cold.
I gaze again at the mystery.
The grip loosens.
A binary constructed
of blood and sweat is
revealed as a lie
swallowed whole
in fear and pride.
The melancholy of winter
stirs souls and whispers
a painful promise of hope.
Suddenly all I feel are your
hands on mine, rough and warm;
your heartbeat disrupts
the chaos, a welcome reprieve;
your fragrance clings to the
strands of my hair
and finally, I can breathe;
the world shrinks to just
you
and just me,
and I sense in the thickened air
that everything is OK.
Hard to get up and go days,
Hard to put on that smile
To just feel normal days.
Feeling the air press against me days,
Feeling like I’m not awake
Like I can’t find my center days.
Seeing the darkness days,
Seeing my own frailty
The horror of separation days.
Finding you with me days,
Finding you gentle
Finding you listening
Finding you solid ground
Finding you here
Finding you loving me
Finding you with me days.
I Sing My Soul 