Foxes Don't Pray

I make these offerings to remember that to be human is to dance and pray and eat and sing and fail fantastically at everything…

Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

read or listen:

Strong winds are turning the forest treetops into a boisterous ocean above
as we ply our day of chores at the end of the week.
I empty myself of as much as I can so the wind will make a warren of me,
a welcome place to fill.

How do I give thanks for everything I am a part of?

Foxes don’t give thanks or pray.
It doesn’t matter how many hens they kill,
as far as I know they don’t crawl back to their den,
to an elaborate altar devoted to the creator and benefactor of all Foxes,
lay a pile of feathers beside the ornaments of recent hunts,
bowing low in gratitude for the delicious creatures they have slain.

Fox knows the creator won’t be angry
because Fox’s were made for this hunting way,
living in the grace of their kind.

I am lifted to the canopy of Cedars and Pines,
carried in the dancing waves that tangle their sweet dry bones,
feeling the pull to return to the beginning of People and Foxes and Trees and Hens.

When I crawl into bed tonight I’ll place inside of me the treasures of my day,
offerings to the Being that is empty and full
that carries us through life,
that loves a Fox’s satisfied belly and the bustling procession of a flock of Hens alike.

I make these offerings to remember that to be human is to dance and pray and eat and sing and fail fantastically at everything…

everything except love
because that is how we were made,
and that is what I can be for,
if I let the Ocean Wind Forest carry me forward
in its way.