Blink

The day I learned to pray again was bereft of fanfare or rambunctious praise.

Blink

The day I learned to pray again was bereft of fanfare or rambunctious praise. It was an ordinary day and I was home alone standing on a circular dog bed clad in sweats and house slippers. My nose was inches from the north-facing window as the wrinkles in my forehead clenched. Beyond the window, perched, in the tangled limbs of the seven foot wall of bougainvillea sat a brilliant Costa’s hummingbird. Blurred by a window screen the creature was unaware of my peeping a mere two feet away. Balanced, like the bird, my breathing was slow, my shoulders light. I had not prayed prayed in months until I noticed this hummingbird blink its pebble-sized eye.

And then again. 

Each blink a prayer, I was learning to see.