All posts in Sunday Prayers & Secrets

Sunday Secret

very oftenVery often, it’s the sky that reminds me that my worries and troubles are nothing to be concerned about. Looking up—at the colors and hues and expanse, I recoil in the face of my tiny anxieties. If I could wrangle that grandeur, that magnificent gloriousness, I’d most definitely forget all my little foibles and idiosyncrasies and I’d burst forward like a sunset that leaves everyone breathless and I’d leave all the lonely grievances behind and I’d float away on a magenta cloud, weightless and determined.

Try Not To Sweat The Grey Stuff,
Mister Master Rainbow Society

Sunday Secret

RightTurnI careen around corners with reckless abandon and boundless hope. Hurtling headlong into something gorgeous or something horrifying, I keep my foot on the petal, anxious to see what’s around the bend. How is it that I haven’t flown off a cliff up until this point? How is it that I’ve kept my bearings long enough to arrive, semi-unsettled, at the point where I had envisioned myself being? I’ll never know the formula that keeps me forging forward. I just know that I catapult, sweetly, toward what I imagine will help me be more me, regardless of my endless and furious doubt that accompanies me along my lively journey.

Keep Your Eyes On the Road,
Serena of the Steely Fingered Steering Wheel Graspers

Sunday Prayer

mountainDear Mister Big Man of All Things,

Hey listen I know you’re just about as busy as the person in charge of keeping Victoria Beckham waxed and all but if you could find it in your schedy to remind me of my majestic parts I’d be forever indebted. And I’m not talking about Nobel Peace Prize winning or Astronaut To the Moon Riding kind of stuff—I’m just talking about those days when I wake up feeling full of light and I am able to carry that through until at least late afternoon. Or when I am able to carry on a loving conversation with my mother without taking the bait she propels out to me like some smarmy fly fisherman. I’m talking about how I wiggle into my majestic strength and serenity. How, at certain times, I am capable of letting the storyline go and I just drift along, unencumbered by grief or anger or resentment or tumult. Can you remind me of this? Can you help me notice those times when I am a heavyweight in my own corner, ready to take on the next challenge like some weightless angel in search of something plain and gorgeous, thank you amen you may be seated.

Yours In Selfie Selfersonism,
Teresa Tries Very Hard

Sunday Secret

farscapeFeet steadied directly below me, I raise my head and look out far, far beyond my immediate landscape and I can see the infinite beyond. What seems small from where I am standing is, I realize, large beyond my imagination and in my heart I find this compelling. The what ifs and how abouts and if onlys tend to fade away when I put them into context of the great wide expanse and when I do this it comes to me: I don’t know much. I may worry and fuss and wrangle with what I imagine to be truth but when it comes down to it I am just an observer looking up and out and wishing for cohesion—wishing and wondering about what the heck is in store for me.

Over the Hills and Far Away,
Penelope Prediction-ish

Sunday Secret

wolfieLord lordy knows when the seasons change I howl at the moon. I anticipate the nights when I can’t sit out on the deck without my jacket on. I picture how my breath looks like smoke. I plan the ways in which I will unwind and forgive. I read and watch and look and write. I have big plans, I do, when it comes to Autumn flowing into Winter.

And I hibernate and rejuvenate and reciprocate, all the while planning my reorganization of my whirling swirling planet. I rid myself and check myself. I picture the smiling faces at Thanksgiving dinner. I look forward to those gloomy days when I will be forced to lift myself up. I preen and prepare conjure up a type of joy that will have some lasting effect on my doomsday mind. I cook new things, I take different walks and I always, always always listen to sweet music.

Happy Pumpkins,
Gertrude of the Gravy