Merciful God, we humbly thank Thee for setting the earth on its rotation around the sun, thus providing humanity with periods of light that permit us, as we go about our daily business, to recognize with relative clarity the things of the earth, and for the atmospheric changes and angles of the sun that allow us to sense the progression of time and thus acknowledge all manner of climatological differences. So too do we thank Thee for creating a period of darkness during which our eyes might find respite and our minds repose, and where we might also experience a reprieve from sense-making, most palpably experiencing, in our dream-states, the joys and terrors of embarking upon adventures much greater in scope than we would ever hope to undergo during our comparatively prudent daytime excursions. But most of all, oh LORD, we thank Thee for the beds upon which we sleep, and for which we too often take for granted, failing to remember the hay-or-leaf-stuffed animal skin mattresses of yore, or the goat-skin waterbeds of Persia, or the heaped palm-boughs of Egypt.
The last few pieces I’ve read have been pretty intense. I like intense, but even so, it was nice to read something a little lighter. And it is available online (thank you, New Orleans Review.
Just because it’s not as gut-wrenching as Alzheimer’s disease or disabled children, that doesn’t mean it’s not crafted. For those familiar with formal prayers there’s a recognizable progression: A universal opening acknowledging That From Which All Has Come, the focus on a specific item in that creation for which these particular thanks are offered and some elaboration of its value to the earthbound, a request for a blessing upon this cherished object, and a reminder to be vigilant in thankfulness.
We therefore ask a blessing upon these our beds, that they may not do us harm but fulfill their promise in providing us a place to safely slumber, that they might be rafts upon which we lie to escape the storms of life, and that furthermore, they may remain a place where children are forbidden to jump—if only so that children may discover the joys of benign transgressions…
And just because a piece isn’t gut-wrenching doesn’t mean it can’t provide a vehicle for contemplation. A bed is a wonderful thing, isn’t it. Just ask someone who sleeps on a sidewalk.
It’s a selection from A Book of Uncommon Prayer, an anthology, edited by Vollmer, updating the traditional prayer book with more modern concerns: “Post-Game-Day Blessing”, “For People Who Are Seeing Their New Rental For the First Time,” “For the Moth, But Also for the Spider.” I’m deeply fond of a quote from the trailer: “let us not forget what is shallow & what is deep eventually meet,” from Sasha Steensen’s “Poems for Lent”. It’s wonderfully autological: true, even profound, on a shallow level, at least if you squint, but if you think of it beyond the time we give our Hallmark Card profunditites, it’s of course ridiculous, since where shallow and deep meet, either a) shallow is no longer shallow, or b) deep is no longer deep, or c) both, so shallow and deep never meet… and all that still leaves the whole T-or-F of the mandatory coexistence of shallowness or depth (as well as Łukasiewicz’s many-valued logic needed to determine where shallow is no longer shallow etc etc), and it’s true again, since shallow and deep have met in those very lines.
… where was I? Oh, yeah, yammering about intense. Boy, I’m gonna hate this post in the morning…