Garden snails are amazing little creatures,
although I confess to having harmed a few
of them in my life of careless selfishness.

All they really wanted me to appreciate is
that part of them which is living all snails,
all gardens and gardeners alike.

They’re graciously appearing here
to show me what I really am, as are
all the breathing pulsing props in
this mystery garden of dreams
in which I find myself.

I learn again and again to forgive life,
to forgive the dream, for appearing as it is.

Why does this simple act often seem so difficult?

I recognize my habitual resistance to it,
and then let that go, let the snails be, let life be –
not harming, but loving, only loving.

What’s so hard about that?

What will it take for the truth of Ahimsa,
non-harming, to fully make its point in my heart?

I lift a snail from the flower stalk
and re-locate it safely in the bushes.

God peaks out from under the snail shell,
knowing nothing of this – not a thought,
not a prayer – just living, just being.

This is the prayer.