The words don’t care about my feelings, about my petty sulks and mortal frustrations. But it responds to the old words like trees to wind, rustling awake, stretching roots deep, deep down. It’s a part of me so deep, so elemental, I can’t even name it. The part of my mind that isn’t consumed with accounting and finance, the part that isn’t even rational or entirely civilized. New and tailored for the person expressing it because otherwise what’s the point?īut for the first time, I feel the power of praying words alongside someone else, the power of praying words so familiar and ancient they come from some hitherto unknown part of my mind. “I’d always thought real prayer, real religious expression, had to be unique.
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