Dear God, Sometimes, the impulse to fall face-flat on my bedroom rug overwhelms me. Desire in my belly and thighs brazenly hums its opinion, wants to draw me down until I lie close to you with a body I’m ordinarily too shy to share. It doesn’t escape me how much my embrace might resemble what so many faithful people choose to do on portable prayer rugs facing Mecca, the woman who washes her feet in Anderson Park’s public sink before praying on the sidewalk-- or the families sitting cross-legged on gem-toned carpets inside the Orthodox church at the center of town, sweet-talking you while gilded icons chaperone. These people know how to kneel. They go further, fold onto their rugs until their foreheads touch down in a reverence both body-bold and soft with grace. If I were to start falling for you, I would praise you at home putting my cheek on the floor where I know who I am. But you are everywhere. I might as well lie down anywhere, make a fool of myself in the grocery store, the library, the pharmacy-- anywhere that people go: your holy ground. How is it I can walk above what matters most without a bow, a touch, a blessing? Honestly, If I let myself go, I’d end up prostrate on pavement, lawns, all over town. People would notice. They’d point and gossip and give me a name: The Woman Who Falls in Love with God. But that hasn’t happened yet. When I go to my room this evening, I pray that even the low risk embrace I can give on my rug might transform me into one of your faithful ones. Not just I, but my body wants to know how to love you where you can be found and what to do about the ground. Karen Jessee *********
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