In a world choking on technology,
help me lift my head, walk outdoors,
and breathe through my heels.
In a world crusted over by the religions of rote,
let me sit in a park, speak plain with my brother,
and drink to the mysteries joining souls and spirits.
In a moralizing world, stark with method and system,
let me rest in the simple, original good I came with,
and rediscover the naïve innocence of a seeing heart.
In a culture enthralled by image,
give me simple, comfortable shoes that fit
—so well as to forget my feet.
In the reductions of our visual culture,
reignite my imagination with poems of red wagons
and white chickens and the slung bellies of cows.
Give courage to stand against a world made violent
by envy and resentment, and monstrous egos—
strength to stand and not shoot back.
In a world herded by silly fascinations,
give me a profound capacity
Help me accept “yes”, “no”, “now”, “not yet”,
for who knows that today’s “no” brings tomorrow’s “yes”?
or today’s “not yet”, tomorrow’s “now”?
May I learn to live serenely, sincerely, without thought of guarantee,
not in some illusory world, before or beyond this given day,
but here, right now, with you.
Remove my appetite for self-improvement, self-fulfillment, self-actualization,
it all seems so tiresome and vain,
replace it with an ability to waste time in some splendid unconscious purpose.
Help me release questions of death—I have no power to change anything.
Help me release the fears of life, befriend uncertainty, and recline
in the throat of a daffodil—I have no motive to rage against dying light.
Give me strength to survive my failures—
to survive my successes.
At dawn may I rise in the budding of self-blessing,
irresistibly compelled to honour all others,
as Divinity itself.
Bring the warm-cool rains,
draw me inexplicably into obedience to Love,
and let Love act in me without impediment.
And may this stumbling prayer toward “the way of peace”,
never tempt me to suppose it an object
of attainment or spiritual merit…instead
let me lose myself in the spring green of poplar,
in old hollows that whistle in wind,
in the patter of a farmer’s market,
in the smell of fresh tomatoes,
in harmony with this turning earth—
and Creation find me with hands folded,
when addressed by sparrows.