no knowing

I know next to nothing about anything. And less every day. Every new day leaves the mind's load lighter. And often, for this, the heart's heavier.

I don't know how to breathe well. How to listen with complete attention. How to laugh aloud, spontaneously. How to make really good bread. How to get meaningful work. How to make eye contact. How to shape some thing of beauty with my hands, or to dream it before making. How to maintain sufficient connection with earth. How to ask for the kindness that I need.

I don't know how to sleep: this skill seems a complete luck of the draw, and tonight I drew the low card, and nevermind the pills, and the teas, and the meditations: that's that.

I don't know how to pray. Though soul holds a channel always open. Though heart surfs constant tides of gratitude and need. Though senses stretch toward every greengold whisper spoken in earthtime and in dreamtime. Though in afternoon, when sunshot skies of a sudden folded soft into clouds, like two peaceful hands coming together, and I beneath the five diamond drops of rain that fell as an afterthought was clasped in the center of a prayer, it wasn't my prayer, but the sky's. But that, in the moment, was certainly more than enough.

I can only pray that earth and sky haven't forgotten what they know: that aside from their infinities, they know me as well. As well as they did, back when we were so connected I never stopped to think about what I didn't know.