The little electric stove in the corner of the room hums (and makes a disconcerting noise that has me wondering if it’s nearing the end of its lifespan) and Murphy, my constant companion, is tucked in his crate watching every move I make.
A fading bunch of grocery store flowers is on the table next to the north window. My camera is on a tripod on the table facing the flowers, my favourite 60mm f2.8 macro lens firmly affixed. I’ve pulled out pieces of black canvas and white foam core from behind the antique stove where they’ve languished for so many months and arranged them just so.
I look through the viewfinder on my camera, adjust settings, and use a remote shutter to capture images with the least amount of camera shake. I rearrange the flowers, plucking single blooms and using a little flower frog to stand them upright. I move the camera and use the foam core to reflect light as I click the shutter. And click. And click.
And I see the hand of God.
All the stuff out there falls away and a holy Presence whispers truth as I work in the sanctuary of my woman cave. I see the Divine in these flowers clear as anything.
This is prayer.