Remembering to Pray

Sometimes, toward end of day, I jog on a beach nearby on Mobile Bay. As the sun is sinking I look out at the pelicans wheeling in the sky, the fishermen on Fairhope Pier casting their nets, sailboats and channel markers changing to silhouette.

Like many who make their way here to enjoy sunset, snapping photos, sipping cocktails, relaxing on benches, I find this light on water a joy to behold. I breathe deeply as I run – the Gulf Coast winter is mild, a sweatshirt enough to ward off the chill – and feel happy just to be alive.

I am in good health, enjoy a loving family and many trusted friends. I have worked as journalist, novelist, teacher, had great jobs, lost others; made more money, less money. I’ve traveled the world.

On this day, I sprint up a hill and come to a promontory looking out to the sweep of the bay, the horizon red and orange, and another impulse comes up in me.

It is not enough to take a photo, call a friend, jot a line in my notebook, be philosophical. Like the light, the feeling is orchestral, a welling-up of emotion.

I want to speak in a way that used to be easy for me as a child: silently, intensely, embracing the mysteries.