“My Ego doesn’t like being on unemployment,” I said. “It wants to go to work.”

This was on an outreach call to a friend. We were talking about some of the constant themes I write about: surrender, uncertainty, standing still….

…and the virus.

Interesting isn’t it? How it has that name now among friends. “The virus”…like it’s been christened as this entity. We’ve gone from “SARS-CoV-2” to “the virus responsible for COVID-19” to “the COVID-19 virus” to just “the virus,” because why waste time with formalities.

One thing I have become acutely aware of in the last few weeks is how astonished I am my body hasn’t caved in on me up until now. When I became mindful of everything I touch and move and place on my table or bed or car or face, I was flabbergasted that I have not died from some random invisible infection already.

As an aside, my body—well the saying is “your” body—is your temple, and I can see that now. Not in a religious way but a way of awe and wonder. Like when you go into a temple and gaze up at the architecture and the crevices and cracks that are so high you can’t even imagine how someone got up there. How some of the ancient temples were crafted long before we had machines and the industrial revolution.

So I kind of feel that way now about the body and my whole being. It’s truly something, and I cannot even grasp how it keeps me safe. Even after my brain injury it tried with all its might to right the capsized ship. Oh body, I commend thee.

I know someone right now that is sick with “said virus” in a very densely populated city. She has been sick for six weeks, and I only found out about it recently. This is unacceptable, my brain says, we must DO something.

But what?

I sent a card and a few gifts via an online merchant. I have texted and called to check-in on her regularly. I have told her how much she means to me and how grateful I am for her in my life. And all those words and all those gifts and all that light and love I am sending to somehow energetically make her well keeps coming up short. I feel empty.


After one of my several meltdowns around this, the thought came to me to pray. To sit down and pray for everything for her that I wanted for myself. Technically this is a program tool recommended when we can’t shake a resentment, but it was what came to mind, so I went with it.

Then I had another thought that went like this: Pray? You want me to pray? That is absolutely ridiculous. What is that going to do?? How on earth will praying fix anything? We have to go DO something!!

This was countered by another thought that went like this: Of course you should pray. You said you believe in a Higher Power—one that is everything and has infinite resources and you’ve seen bring you miracles. Miracles and circumstances and series’ of events you couldn’t have possibly orchestrated (see previous post Glimmers of Gratitude) even on your best and brightest day! So why not go to the source? Where is the resistance??

Then I found it.

Beneath my not doing or rather my (UN)doing, (which I like better for the double entendre), I found my agnosticism, alive and well lollygagging in the sun. It was sipping an umbrella drink, chatting vivaciously with my ego. It was replaying all the stories it had heard about prayer and Higher Power and God with enthusiastic interest, meanwhile utterly convinced it was not going to find the same ease and comfort for itself. It was not going to find the grace it was witnessing in others. It wasn’t going to work because it (“I”) was different. It was just as surprised to see me as I was to see it…”it” meaning me.

Instead of battling, debating, or carrying on how it’s right or I’m right and trying to figure out what is wrong or who is wrong, I acknowledged it and paused. I let it chat away, because I knew if I engaged it in conversation no one would win and we would both just wind up exhausted.

I sat down and I prayed.

“There are many things that are essential to arriving at true peace of mind, and one of the most important is faith, which cannot be acquired without prayer.”
—John Wooden