This morning, like most, I went in search of a sunny spot in which to drink coffee and pray. I walked for blocks until finding a set of steps leading to a scruffy patch of weeds, a riot of purple teaming with tiny bees. The bees are not confused. The tiny purple flowers are not worried. I envy their clarity.
The only thing I ask for in prayer is insight. I do not pray to a single entity, a sentient mind and heart that knows my name. Although I know this loving presence does indeed exist, I cannot see Its face. But I do see Their creations. And that's more than enough for me.
My prayers are a conversation with The Ancestors. This collective is a brilliant electrical soup, a stock pot of everything that has ever lived and died: Every ground squirrel, potato vine, coral reef, human, garden snail and star in the universe has a personal story of birth and growth, of struggle and fulfillment. Every living thing ultimately surrenders and reconnects to the Divine.
The Ancestors have already done everything I am doing. I have to make hard choices today. I desperately need guidance.
In a place outside my mind, a few inches behind and below my human heart, I ask the Ancestors for a sip of Wisdom. This is done without words.
And when I am quiet enough, the Wisdom comes in, but only a tiny stream. If it were to flood me with all it contains, I would explode in a flash of every sunrise, every muddy river and every silver trout, and every flyaway ember from every campfire and every song that every child made up and every human’s laugh, and every war and every embrace and every burrowing beetle, and every prayer that everyone has ever sent into the heavens. A trickle is all I can absorb right now.
Each tiny bee rises and sets on a different purple flower in a chaotic swarm. There are about 15 bees and about a thousand flowers. As the Wisdom trickles in, I gradually see the bees moving as one, a rhythm and pattern that was invisible moments before. And I suddenly understand my difficult choices in a whole new way. I say thank you. This is all done very quietly. Our conversation is private.
And then a human voice seeps into my awareness from behind me, slightly to the right side. A man is walking toward me, talking loudly on his phone. I am instantly annoyed. I am nearly always annoyed by humans, despite how badly I need their company. His voice is invading the world that does not belong to him, as if the bees have no right to hold their own conversation in peace.
He is talking to someone he loves. “I know buddy. This is terrible. I will pray for you. In fact, I’m gonna pray for you right now. Father God, hold my friend in your all powerful love. Father God, bless him and all the people at the hospital caring for him. Father God, give him peace and strength.”
His voice trailed off as he stomped up the street, leaving a trail of words and sounds and care wafting behind him. They reached me and jostled me. I was the driftwood nest, teeming with algae and water skippers and minnows and he was the blaring speed boat. But even though his presence was intrusive, the ripple, the water wake was beneficial. His prayer washed over us and it was cool and it rinsed us with pure love.
And maybe the bees can assist his prayer for his friend in some way that none of us can see.
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