I Don't Pray Anymore.

I don't pray anymore. It's against my religion.

Don't feel shock or pity. A distinct path led me here, to this spot of theological peace that I've carved out for myself. It's somewhere in the vicinity of my front porch, where almost any day I can see the sun rise over a wheat field the color of honey. Where the wind hushes the core of me even as it brushes auburn hair across the faded freckles on my cheek and shuts softly the lids of my eyes. Where I inhale things like the smell of rain and the smell after the rain and the smell of freshly cut hay. The smell of twilight. Where hopscotch and rainbows, dragons and tic-tac-toe tile the concrete under my bare feet. Where a million stars leak through the black roof of this big sky every clear night. Where I feel love . . . and loved.

From this front porch, how could I petition any God, depositing prayers like coins in a cosmic vending machine, choosing my blessing du jour by punching the buttons of my choice? How could I do anything but stand, drenched in gratitude, my chest open to the sky, and feel . . . thankful?