PRAY FOR PEACE
by Ellen Bass http://www.ellenbass.com/peace.html

Pray to whoever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross, his suffering
face bent to kiss you, Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching
heat, Yahweh, Allah, raise your arms to Mary that she may lay her palm
on our brows, to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth, to Inanna in her
stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper of time before, time
now, time ahead, pray. Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese
cats. Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work, pray on the bus, pray for
everyone riding that bus and for everyone riding buses all over the
world. If you haven’t been on a bus in a long time, climb the few
steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM, for your latté and
croissant, offer your plea. Make your eating and drinking a
supplication. Make your slicing of carrots a holy act, each translucent
layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head. As you wash your face, the water
slipping through your fingers, a prayer: Water, softest thing on earth,
gentleness that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer. Skin and open mouths
worshipping that skin, the fragile case we are poured into, each caress
a season of peace.

If you’re hungry, pray. If you’re tired.  Pray to Gandhi and
Dorothy Day.  Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.  Pray to
the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox, to the video store, let each
step be a prayer that we all keep our legs, that we do not blow off
anyone else’s legs. Or crush their skulls. And if you are riding on a
bicycle or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution of the
wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves we will do less harm, less
harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure, a tiny palm tree painted
on one pearlescent nail or delivering soda or drawing good blood into
rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard with yellow chalk,
twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those who have believed when
belief seemed foolish, who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace, feed the birds
for peace, each shiny seed that spills onto the earth, another second
of peace.  Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk. Make a path. Fold a
photo of a dead child around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust of prayer,
scoop your prayer water from the gutter. Mumble along like a crazy
person, stumbling your prayer through the streets.