When I pray, I imagine myself as a glass shell of a person. My insides are hollow—if you tapped my body, a clear note would ring from my head to my toes. But darkness and dirt, the scrappy dust refuse of industry, gather around my head and my heart, blocking the light.
Like water, falling heavy from the sky, my higher power reaches in and washes away the refuse. I feel the water fall into the rim at the top of my head, falling with such force that it reaches my toes and swells back up my sides, going up and over out of the rim once again. With it, it takes my fear, my pain, my worries, and plaguing doubts. Light shines through me again and drops of water evaporate from my glass skin.
The moment, the rush, the swell are momentary. I haven't been at the practice of prayer for long, and asking for help is a relatively new concept for me. I am trying to build it as a habit. Instead of running my hands ragged, blisters forming on my palms where I've tried to grasp and control again and again, I open my hands and let go. Someday, my first instinct will be to let go.