I actually took my break today – towards the tail end of a busy day, I took my half-hour and walked to the park and sat with my rosary. It’s a strange phenomenon, and I remember writing the words “I’m teaching my fingers to pray”. It turns out that the teaching is a work in progress – in all the busyness of Lent, and then Easter, and then the crazy-bustle after Easter, I’ve (somewhat ironically) lost the habit of slipping easily into the deeper quiet of prayer, of dwelling gently and resting for a moment in the peace of that. Of reminding myself that I am a creature of the Creator, that I am held, always, in the love of the Source of love.
I’m trying to get back to that sense, to that spiritual discipline which was becoming such a part of my daily life – admittedly a part of my daily life that was first to fall off the radar when things got difficult. I miss it, and I feel a greater sense of completion when I do spend that time doing what I was created to do: connecting the deepest part of my being back to its own Source.
So today I took myself off to the park and sat with my back to the river (no that no one can sneak up on me, and I can hear the crunch of any approaching feet on the gravel pathway lining the river – some habits die hard) and quietly said the rosary.
It’s hard, coming back to it after so long away. Prayer has rubbed smooth the roughness of my mind, but that softness has hardened again with absence, and I struggled to find the words. Until the breeze gently touched the side of my face, and I decided that it was an apt metaphor, and found myself whispering in my mind: Creator God, sweep the winds of your Spirit through all my life, and may I dwell always in you.
Which is funny, because while it was a convenient metaphor to turn into a quick prayer, it was so much more than that. It was reflective of what I so deeply need: a stirring breeze to sweep through my life – all of my life, work and home and writing and sleep and time with friends and time on the treadmill and gym equipment and time playing the string game with the cat – and scour away the stagnation there. To cleanse my life of those things I don’t need, that aren’t nourishing: those silly distractions which drain me of life but which somehow become first on my to-do list, foremost in my mind. To remind me of the simplicity of life: a winding river and friends with whom I share the love of God, and the vibrancy of life and the touch of a cool breeze which, without my knowing it, somehow contains the hand of God.
Mysterious ways, indeed.