Each morning, the prayer sparkles like freshly fallen dew on the ground. The body stirs to honor the new day. The hand turns over the blankets, summoned to await the revolution of day to regain their purpose. Cast aside, crumpled, they collapse upside down on the bed as the body is reborn in the splendor of the new day. An eternal moment that recurs as long as life flows in the veins and provides this breath whose absence rhymes with death. The body stirs and embraces the twilight to slide across the mattress, out of bed, and let the feet touch the floor. Habit brings darkness to the room, denying it its mystery. The hand finds the trousers and sweater that will clothe the body, which feels clumsy as it rediscovers movement, having grown accustomed to the stillness of the night. Suddenly, the space has defined and precise volumes that are best left undisturbed. The darkness watches over its fortifications and hopes to regain some ground in its struggle against the day and against visual acuity, which is slowly adapting to the lack of light.
The prayer room. At last! The small light glides by, revealing the triptych icon, a Virgin and Child, surrounded by the archangels Michael and Gabriel. A soft light, like a Mediterranean sunset. Descending to my knees onto the prie-dieu reveals the moment of truth. My knees creak and cry out for mercy. The muscular effort required to lower myself onto the worn cushion placed on the wooden prie-dieu allows my limbs to become accustomed to this new position. To sink in while maintaining the dignity required by prayer. To let my gaze wander over the composite altar. To contemplate the warm, woody light of the lamp on the cracked icon. To see the face of Christ in this 19th-century painting and his finger discreetly pointing to his merciful heart. To recognize Andrei Rublev's Trinity. To think of Tarkovsky's genius and all the holy fools. To let my mind wander as in a novel by Antoine Blondin. Revisiting that poorly signed contract, the chaos of work and human relationships. Trying to ignore those creaking knees, begging for comfort. Forgetting that phone call, each word of which landed like a sledgehammer blow. Letting myself be overcome by a few notes of despair about life after yesterday's awful day, when weeks of work were reduced to nothing. Regretting this endless fatigue, yearning to be swept away by a vacation that never seems to arrive… How do so many thoughts swirl and turn in the human mind, which can't stop churning and coaxing its ideas, its concepts, this way of seeing the world, the days gone by, those yet to come? What bliss these senses are, these visual, tactile, auditory, gustatory, and olfactory impressions, returning to us and settling into our memory, where our spirit resides! What poetry!
Thoughts erase all knee pain or arthritis that clings there like a shell to a rock. But after the storm of memories and hopes comes the time of hope and remembrance. It overflows memories and hopes by a hundred cubits, in depth, length, breadth, and height. In truth, it is very difficult to say how far it surpasses them, for nothing allows for comparison. The soul feels a shockwave at the thought of such a comparison. Nothing can be compared to hope and remembrance. It would be like comparing heaven to earth. It would not be fitting. How can people who do not believe live like this, neglecting their souls? How can they cover them with so many artifices that they no longer resonate strongly enough to awaken them? It is beyond comprehension.
Prayer sifts through the initial thoughts. Those that resonate and drum, demanding to be released. Those that continue to resonate even when we no longer hear them. In what time and space does life express itself? We believe it to be here, yet it is there. We think of it as distant, absorbed in theory, and yet practice wins out by embracing thoughts and actions. We are absent from ourselves. So profoundly. Let us be still. And if we succeed, if we allow ourselves to be absorbed by this dawn that treads and groans, that gives birth to day and life, love arrives unannounced and envelops and weds us. This is the fruit of prayer. There is a moment brought about that awaits us despite ourselves. From that instant, each of us will never be the same again. A moment from which we never truly return. The beauty of this intimate encounter, from which only love emerges victorious, orders the world. We would like to avoid it, because time is short, there is so much to do, seconds ricochet off one another, the world commands us, and we are victims of our own decaying structure. Sometimes, when thoughts drift, the waiting fills us with despair. Has the appointment been missed? Is a participant running late? We wait and grow impatient. We might even start checking the time. We fidget. Until the moment we realize it's not the right place, that we've made a mistake, that we've gone astray. From experience, we should know that if the appointment doesn't happen, it's never His fault, but ours. We haven't made ourselves available. The only time in our lives when we must be absent to participate.
Never does the creature reveal itself so fully. All weaknesses on display. All fragilities exposed. Nothing protects anymore, for nothing could tarnish the moment. The day slips in and merges with the nightlight. The furtive shadows glide across the Virgin's face. The sword of Saint Michael gleams, ready to serve. The zertsilo of the Archangel Gabriel where Christ gazes, indicating the ever-present path to follow. All these thoughts, these emotions, these feelings nourish and are nourished, mindful of their importance. No order governs them. All that has been said, all that will be said, all that has not been said, all that could have been said, concentrates and extracts itself, reduced to nothing. Prayer has only just begun. It announces itself. Eyes close. One gropes oneself within. There is a sanctuary there that unsettles. Will one find what one comes seeking? “Lord, in the silence of this dawning day, I come to ask you for peace, wisdom, and strength…” One must expect nothing in order to find everything new. Words, suddenly, falter. They no longer carry weight. Prayer begins. It extinguishes all that is not itself, that is to say, all that is not silence. The abyssal intensity of silence. The silence that engulfs all that is in its presence. The silence that reigns for its master: love. Then, prayer begins: when love unfolds and fills every vein, every organ, every fiber of being to establish the Creator's precedence over the creature. Nothing else exists. The heart flooded with joy. Nothing else can exist, for everything is incongruous compared to this moment, which is neither a feeling, nor an emotion, nor a thought. The universe diminishes as in a deep exhalation. There is a moment that does not exist, but which will recur with the next surrender. There is a moment that gives life its full significance. There, at the heart of prayer, vibrates love, a jewel we all possess, but not by escaping, by surrendering. Nothing is acquired there, everything is offered. Little by little, by no longer accessing it, contemporaries have convinced themselves that it did not exist or that it no longer exists. They found that science was stronger than this new religion. They ridiculed it, because it was not enough to forget it, it had to be denigrated, trampled underfoot. Even if they found exotic substitutes for it, like mindfulness. Yet, whoever allows themselves to be captured by it is transformed, metamorphosed. To refuse it is to die a slow death. To die to oneself. To die to Him. Forever.
Prayer transforms all of life by restoring its simplicity, its wonder.
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