Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Smudge - Prose.
Sweet grass smoke stifles the room with the chilling presense of spirituality. As the shell is passed around and each person douses themselves in a moment of silent prayer, I find myself wondering what it is they're praying for, what it is they hope to bless. The shell is set before me and I take a moment to wash myself in the haze. My face, my hands, my heart. I pass the smudging bowl on before I realize I forgot to pray.