How To Pray and Curse At The Same Time
Transforming rage into meditation
Fucking hell.
I’m late.
I fumble for my go-to athletic, no-slip tennis shoes. They’re all slip, no athletic. My fingers scramble to text “Five minutes away!” even though I’m fifteen out. No big deal. Being a little late wouldn’t hurt anybody. I slip my keys and phone into my pocket before gliding out the door.
Outside, dark, bloated clouds dominate the sky and turn everything gray. My chest deflates. Irritation bubbles in my gut. A downpour is the last thing I need, and these shoes would disintegrate if they touched a puddle. There’s no time to linger over shady weather, so I rush to my car.
The road rolls underneath my wheels, the terrain familiar and easy—until a red sedan zips past me, cutting into my lane before dramatically slowing down. The red blur slices through my vision, and my heart lurches into my throat. My foot slams on the brake as metal screams to a halt. Chest heaving, my eyes drift to the rearview mirror, bracing for impact. Relief floods my head at the emptiness behind me.
A near miss like that would warrant a prayerful “Thank you.” But something about the screech of those wheels snaps something in me. Loose ends flail at my side. I’m not quick enough to tie them back together.
Anger cascades over me, too sticky for a pretty prayer to hide. But I’ve seen it before. It lurks every time I bow my head and fold my hands. Like when my favorite wine glass broke. When I forgot three of my friends’ birthdays. When I received my sixth job rejection. The job layoff from five months ago. In each moment, I spouted pretty words of praise when I wanted to flick my middle fingers in the air and curse loud enough to startle birds flying south. Yet, it was a damned red sedan that broke me.
It’s comical, really. The way I cosplay appreciation. As if the forces that be don’t already know how I feel. I learned that folded hands and bowed heads are only meant for thanks. So, I expressed my gratitude while shoving my rage into an overstuffed suitcase to keep my hopelessness hidden. But why expect a rose to lie about having thorns? Why curse a carpenter for using a hammer to build? Would my meditation be any less valid if I released the claws itching at my fingertips and let angry despair drip from my bowed head?
Even if not, I didn’t have it in me. Thankfulness didn’t stop the shattered glass or impending rejection or surprise layoff. It didn’t wash away that sticky anger. So, it eludes me now. My gratitude list incinerates as fat raindrops plop on my windshield. My hands wrap over the steering wheel in a compassionless grip and the pavement blurs.
“You fucking suck.” The words squeeze past pinched teeth. “You always have.” Claws out. Middle fingers up. Curses slip.
I pray.