A Prayer to Jesus's Father
I know we don't talk much. Too much water under the bridge. Some relationships just don't work out: faults on both sides, no doubt.
But I do have this prayer, stuffed in my jeans pocket. Or maybe a it's a recipe. I think it's addressed to you.
Pound me like tapa cloth,
Knead me like blood clay;
Beat until smooth, and the lumps are gone.
I learned a yoga pose a long time ago. You lie on your back, holding nothing, palms open to the sky.
It's called the corpse pose, because you just lie there, doing nothing.
"It's the first and the last pose you learn," said the yoga teacher. He was turning away from us as he added quietly, "it's the hardest pose."