Dear Not I

I’m saying my prayers every morning but I’m numb. When I think about God, I just see blank space, bolts and bolts of plain muslin fabric hanging in the sky of my mind. I look for You in the cedar tree losing its bark, the force of the wind slowly pushing that sheet away over days. I try to taste God, the Not I, in the tangerine I peel and eat for breakfast. I try to smell God in the rain on the city streets, as I walk along buildings that all feel more present than You, God. Sometimes, it goes on like this for years, this sheet of glass between me and God. But I can’t stop trying, I keep meaning to find. Because one day, I know, in a almond blossom or while I’m sweeping my kitchen floor, gathering the dust into the dustpan, suddenly I’ll realize again, there You are.