The yard-work can't wait, but the weather-oracles say rain, and when I go out, the sky doesn't look promising.
So I face West and pray.
“Thunder, hold off long enough for me to get this done, and I promise you a pouring tonight.”
(A gift for a gift, the ancestors always said.)
Tradition holds that the Big Guy likes his libations, especially the strong stuff.
Now, do I actually believe that Thunder is a big, cute bearded guy up in the sky who hears what I say? Do I honestly think that the forces that drive this planet's weather give a flying f*ck about what I want? Do I truly believe that the Universe makes deals?
No, no, and no. Nonetheless, I make my prayer and, eventually, my offering, as promised.
Why?
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Because I'm human, and humans are social animals that have always treated with the non-human world as if it were human, too.
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Because it keeps me connected with the Great Out There, which, in these days of screen-induced h. sapiens narcissism, is a state devoutly to be wished.
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Because, in my experience, it actually works. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions about operative mechanism here.
Soon after, I feel the first drops. Then it begins to rain hard. Oh well, I think, it never hurts to ask.
A friend of mine who grew up Baptist always tells me: Prayer is always answered. It's just that sometimes, the answer is “No.”