going to the temple

the beauty of the drive home on a rainy day praying

It struck me today as i was washing the kitchen floor and sending love to a friend's daughter who is in struggle that some might see it as irreverent.

This prayer in the midst of dust and fat splatters from cooking and stray hairs from the us long haired women and poodles and shards of paper from some homework assignment, might have seemed profane.

A sacred act like prayer should be in a sanctified space.  With solemnity and process.

But my heart says not for me.

Not for me the life of only praying at the time and place that is deemed appropriate by some force other than the holy.

For me, the moment Love washes in to my heart and I think with love about a friend, or a stranger or our planet in her struggle, that is the time to pray.

When Love turns up.  That is the  temple right there. Whether that is when i am blown away by the miracle of a wet road or dew-dripped spider's web, or my daughter's smile, or the struggle of a human against fear.  The appearance of Love is what counts.

In my heart Love sanctifies a space and I feel it would be the ultimate profanity to shut that Love away until Sunday.  

Prayer in the temple of my heart while washing the floor helps me. The very act of being alive to Love in the midst of the profane is what being alive is about to me.

Being an attendant to Love, the numinous at work in my heart.

Being responsive to the Numinous.  Whenever it shows up.

That lifts my life.

Life is prayerworthy.

Love is the Temple, and it lives in me.