Each solstice and equinox is a cosmic dance. I was happy now that we had joined in.
Don José always used to say, “We make it rain
with our ceremonies.” Which impressed me a lot.
And then he said, “But I’m not stupid. Before I make
it rain, I wait for the rainy season.” So, you know,
you work in harmony with the seasons.
—BRANT SECUNDA,
Huichol shaman
LOOKING FOR LIGHT
In the 1960s, a diverse group of people set out on a journey, and I joined them. We had no idea where we were going. In fact, we were searching for a path, a higher path to follow.
Like most of my fellow pilgrims, I had long abandoned organized religion but was left with a yearning for something more, a way to touch life more deeply. So there we were, a few million of us, meditating, learning yoga, and looking for light in more easterly places—where ecstatic chants and silent retreats seemed to promise enlightenment and mystical bliss.
With that promise in mind, I attended a mega-event in New York City starring someone billed as the Sufi Master of the West. Tall and white-bearded, he was a soft-spoken man. But what got me was the warm-up act by a Hasidic rabbi. (A rabbi? I thought. How did he sneak in?) His name was Zalman Schachter-Shalomi.
He laughed and wagged his finger like a Jewish St. Nick. He joked. He schmoozed. And then he went for the kill. I don’t recall his exact words, but the gist went like this:
You’re looking for God? You’ve lost your way? Forget the bells and whistles. Just get down and pray!
Now, he wasn’t talking church prayer or prayers you recite by rote or from a book. No, he meant prayers from the heart, fresh and alive with our own words and feelings.
Pray from your soul, he said, from your kishkes, your guts. Prayer is simply talking to God.
What? Share my deepest hopes and fears? Find my words and my God? This was something I had never heard before. Yet hearing it felt familiar, like coming home.
I didn’t know then that he was passing on (in his uniquely Zalman way) the teachings of the Hasidic founders, who taught their students to sit alone, indoors or out, and simply open their hearts to God.
Whatever comes to mind, say it. You don’t even have to believe—and you can say that too. . . . Prayer is simply talking to God.
So that’s what I started to do. Simple, but not easy. I mean, to say what I really want to say (and not feel self-conscious or worry if God will like me), to be that honest and real (instead of showing God how good I am), well, it’s a challenge. Still, there is the freedom of authenticity: Anything goes.
The way I begin is always changing. I might start with “Great Spirit” or “Dear Lord” or “Blessed Mother” . . . or all three. I might even say “Divine Friend” and remember what my Sufi teacher said: “Just imagine you’re talking to a special friend or your higher spirit.”
Sometimes I pray for others, sometimes for the world, and sometimes for myself. I often pray for answers and just as often to give thanks. Some days my prayers are affirmations: “I’m living with calmness and kindness.” And some nights my prayer is a song, an Episcopal hymn I first heard in the musical Godspell:
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by day.
The funny thing is, when I need it the most, I often forget to pray. That’s what makes dark nights of the soul so dark: I lose my connection to spirit or anything else. At some point, though, just before touching bottom, I remember to pray: for strength, for peace, for help. Truth is, it doesn’t matter what I pray for; it’s prayer itself that helps bring me back.
I once took a workshop where the leader asked, “What do you want more than anything else?”
I answered “faith,” because I knew that with faith, anything could seem bearable and most things were possible. I still feel that way, and sometimes my faith is strong, while other times it’s lacking. But when my faith is at its weakest, I recall what Swami Vishwananda said: “No one’s faith is strong just like that. You have to build it, day by day.”
Right. But how do you build faith? That’s when I remember again to pray: Pray for faith.
My prayers can also be mundane and specific. For a long time, I obsessed over a major decision: to leave our happy life in Boulder and move back East—closer to kids, grand-kids, and Mom—or stay out West, missing meaningful family moments and perhaps dying alone (in a dark room on a gray, wintry day). Well, I have trouble simply choosing a new mattress (even though John and I have talked about it for ten years and the coils of our old one stick into my back), so how could I ever decide anything as huge as a move? I told my friend Mary this, and she said, “You’re right. This is too big to figure out. Let it go and just pray.”
Of course, pray! Pray for guidance. And sooner or later, it always comes. But to hear it, you need to listen.
It was Ellie who taught me about Listening Prayer. She lent me a booklet, Expectant Listening: Finding God’s Thread of Guidance, written by a Quaker, Michael Wajda, who explained it like this: “Many of us develop daily spiritual disciplines to seek God’s guidance more fully. It is my experience that in seeking, we find. In listening, we hear God’s messages. That’s what I mean by ‘expectant listening’: Listening to hear God’s messages.”
Ellie said to do it any way you want. You can just sit quietly and lift your heart—maybe ask a question, maybe not—and then listen for that still, quiet voice. Sometimes Ellie hears it right away, sometimes later. But what
