I was planting a prayer, over there by the corner butte. I was hoping Coyote Above would find in the next time he trots by. ~Kathleen O’Neal Gear
I planted a smokey prayer stick this morning at one of the black, metal tables where I engage in my daily meditation. I had to find a seam between the umbrella pole and the hole in which it was set. I changed seats ensuring the gentle breeze would push the wafting smoke directly at me. It was a stick of incense purchased in India. The ancient aroma of Indian temples filled my head complementing the Indian music also in my head.
My mind is my temple. The aromatic incense, the luxuriating music like rubbing one’s hand on cashmere from a goat’s chin resurrected memories dormant since a few months in the past…assuming the past exists and my memories are not a matrix construct. Even if they are implanted and my many photos fabricated, there is still joy arising in my soul, floating heavenward with the smoke as life burns away and the gray ash falls in while clouds on the black sky table until dissipated by a breeze from my lips, a wipe from my aging hand.
Is the smoke my prayers or is the ash?
Both ephemeral in their own way. Life is no more permanent than the incense stick orange burning itself out. Our time scales are vastly different but the outcome the same. Burn bright. Smolder. Add a comforting scent to life then ascend to heaven and crash to earth.
Who will trot by to hear the prayers cry out from our souls?