I’m still the one here kneeling before you on my so green front lawn pretending piety as if a nun prostrate before the king to whom she was committing her life. I too, here, feel as if still this child playing at adult life, that child, forming the future for herself in the only way she could conceive. Here too though, the wanting to be put to use is the battle cry, not simple the knelt appeal.
Who would know that the one she conjured for herself then, would become in this decades older iteration, one very much like the one there, only now, the wisdom of ages. The passing of time, offers up an expanded becoming. A becoming that is this pious prostrate but not to a king, not to another, to only, her self. Her life. Her one interior where the true court rules not just the king but the queen the jester the cupbearer and courtesans all. She stands prostrate now even as then, but with the strength and character of one living among the galaxies, as she is.
This is adoration. This is life, lived. Prayer.