I come to the work tired and achey.

Praying over the names of people I have never met in person.

Attending to the weekly task I have set myself

like homework.

It is always overwhelming at first,

looking over the pages still to go,

trying to picture each person as healed

rather than sick,

fighting off sleep and ADD

to get through the ritual.

Tonight, I feel strangely nervous.

I lose my place.

I stumble over words,

my voice unsteady.

My girlfriend has left the house,

so I can chant out loud,

easier than talking to the angels

in my head,

less liable to get lost

in the fog of my own thoughts.

I am constantly tempted to quit.

I have done this long enough.

But it is one of my few consistent

spiritual practices

and one of the few ways I serve the world.

I need to develop my gifts,

learn reiki,

use crystals,

meditate more,

talk to my guardian angels,

learn how to heal on a more global scale.

But until then,

I send out healing energy

nearly every week

to a select group.

I don’t make this strong a commitment

to morning pages,

to my writing,

to exercise

or diet


for some reason

I’ve made this commitment to them.


I come to the work tired,




but I always come to the work

and make sure it is done.