Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth;
  break forth into joyous song and sing praises…
Let the sea roar, and all that fills it;
  the world and those who live in it.
Let the floods clap their hands;
  let the hills sing together for joy
at the presence of the Lord, for he is coming
  to judge the earth.
He will judge the world with righteousness,
  and the peoples with equity.
	Psalm 98:4, 7-9

“Prayer, in its most ancient and elemental sense, consists simply in speaking to things—to a maple grove, to a flock of crows, to the rising wind—rather than merely about things.” Prayer of all kinds, whether addressed to God or to other beings around us has “the quality of respectful attention…the steady suspension of discursive thought and the imaginative participation with one’s chosen interlocuter. It is a practice that keeps one from straying too far from oneself in one’s open honesty and integrity, a way of holding oneself in right relation to the other.” 170, David Abram, Becoming Animal

        This afternoon at wild church we took time to reflect on prayer, how we pray and also how creation prays through ocean waves and grass singing on hillsides. For a long time I had a complicated relationship with prayer. I felt that asking God for things to turn out a certain way was a bit prideful and counterproductive. If God already knows what is in my heart, what point is there in me verbalizing my wishes—wishing someone would get better, wishing for an end to violence, or asking God to intervene in some more mundane matter? Becoming a Quaker opened my eyes to a whole new way of praying—listening for the voice of God. Rather than just me expressing my thoughts to some unseen force, prayer is also about listening, seeking to hear what God might be saying to me. So for a long time, I didn’t talk during prayer. I simply listened. Recently I’ve come to understand the value of expressive prayer as putting out an intention into the world. Prayer expressed as intention is a way of leaning into a hopeful vision of what the world might be if shalom was restored. Prayer as intention is a sort of embodied hope, imagining how things ought to be, and living into that potential reality.
	This week my understanding of prayer has deepened even more in reading the Psalms, many of which are poems and songs about a sentient cosmos that praises God. Every being has its own voice—the leaves rustling in the wind, the patter of rain, the howl of the coyote, the chirp of the cardinal outside my window. And David Abrams reminds us that prayer at its simplest is speech to another being, whether God or someone else. With that in mind I’ve started saying “goodnight” to the maple tree in my backyard when I take the dog out at night. And in the morning I say “good morning” to the frosty grass, crunching under my feet. These prayers, this speech to the living world around me, is a reminder that I am not some immaterial mind walking around on two feet. I am an animal being surrounded by other organisms, a member of the community of creation. My backyard might seem ordinary, but it a microcosm of the universe, all things interconnected and breathing, as the short days slowly lengthen and winter settles in to the cold ground.