Private prayer.

I tried praying as a child, kneeling at the side of my bed and putting my hands together. I’d seen it in picture books, all be it that it was often blonde white children wearing dressings gowns their hair immaculately combed. I seen them do it.
How hard could it be?
I didn’t factor in God or any other deity.
I always enjoyed assemblies, communal singing whilst shards of light came in through the school hall windows.
The dissolution of morning gatherings was the beginning of the end for me. A whole school standing together singing delicious hymns was a joy for me. I was exempt, being Jewish, but I always chose to attend.
I blame `Margaret Thatcher and her lack of commitment to society.
But I digress.
When I got to drama school my favoured place of worship was a tiny Catholic Church in Hampstead. I’d never seen stations of the cross before. I’d never worshipped in a Synagogue and anyway prayer was that thing that Cristians did, kneeling down like Christopher Robin in their detached houses.

Being on the road for years meant I visited lots of churches but always keeping it secret from my agnostic colleagues.
When the dawter was born we holidayed in various Catholic countries. I asked the old git to teach her the stations of the cross and demonstrate genuflection.
In a white stucco church in Mallorca, the sun reflecting off the Vigin Mary, the ‘oosbind bent one knee but before he could cross himself he stood up and refused to do it. The lapsed Catholic boy was not interested in passing in his legacy.

When we moved to the cottage we’d drive past a tiny little church that the Queen Mother used to frequent. Standing on the side of the road, it’s heavy oak door always open, was inviting. Sitting in a pew was a sanctuary for me, but still I didn’t know what to say or do.
I don’t have that issue any more.
I have a slew of affirmations and I think I nearly understand the difference between prayer and invocation.

My version of talking to the Divine takes many forms.
When I fill my hot water bottles I always say

‘I love and approve of myself and I alone create sweetness and joy in my life.’

If I do it slowly enough I fill the bottle to capacity.
When I walk I chant various texts. Florence Scovel Shin starts me off.
She talks about smashing and demolishing, by the spoken word, every untrue message in the subconscious mind. Sending it back to its ‘Native Nothingness’.
I’v got loads of learnt prayers keeping myself busy for at least half an hour.

But as I’ve got older I’m aware that prayer takes many forms;
Private prayer, without the need of assembly, is now part of my life.
Most of us call on an invisible entity when we’re desperate.
Every time I hit insomnia or a glitch at the dialysis unit, I introduce some kind of calming affirmation.
.
I was listening to Radio 3, in a bout of insomnia and on came Chopin.
The Polish genius who captured my heart when I was studying the piano.
Bach and Chopin were my preferred composers.
Bach appealed with his cool precision whilst good old Frederick spoke to my sentimental
Semitic nature, with aching melodies and a skill set that I was developing.
Aged 15, at lunchtime, I would crouch in the corner of the school hall and listen to Mr. Rangeley playing Chopin Ballades.
He took me by the wrist and told me I would be an actress, organised auditions and was responsible for me getting into drama school
Nocturns and mazurkas, and difficult ballades looped round in my head.
I’ve made a list of my Desert Island Discs, Bach and Chopin feature heavily alongside Stevie Wonder and Grimethorpes’ colliery brass band.

And then years and years later we took the trip to Soller in Mallorca. A little wooden train passing by peoples gardens, bougainvillea growing everywhere.
We visited Valledemossa to visit Chopins piano. He’d lived there with George Sand.

We couldn’t afford to go into the museum so I leant against the wall and stood under the window listening to a pianist playing on Chopin’s piano, as the powdery sun shone.
Thinking about it now I realise it was a private prayer moment.
Me and Frederick and my inner world.
For isn’t that what prayer is? A silent communion with some kind of life force.

In a time when religion has been appropriated by the right wing, when leaders of the Free world are liars and cheats.
In a time when communal activities are no longer mandatory, when you have to pay to join a choir or go to a football match to have a communal sing.
In a time when ‘King Trump’ has sullied the very meaning of faith, when prayer is only for the evangelical mob, then a private chat with the Great Mystery can do wonders.
I don’t ask for anybody to believe in anything.
After all I have no idea if God even exists, but twenty minutes with a mantra, my back straight and my hands open to receive whatever, is my version of prayer.
My father would be spinning in his Stalinist grave if he thought I was conversing with an invisible world. But so be it. He’s dead and his way didn’t work, maybe if enough of us ‘Pray’ for peace and kindness then we may affect a change.
It is better than nothing innit?