Prayers Golightly, or not at all.

I was praying this morning. While I was running. I tend to do that often. Especially going up hills. There is something about struggling up a small mountain of pavement, cold air biting at your face, and pushing your feet to catch the beat of your heart--it just makes me want to pray. Possibly because of how out of breath I am and if I don't do something I am sure to try and rationalize why I am running and that will just make me stop running.
I childishly prayed for snow on Christmas.
Sometimes I allow myself to be ridiculous.

After my prayers took flight up to the heavens and my knees gave in, I went back to the house and Mandy + I had blueberry pancakes and watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's." I have determined that Holly Golightly is the most irrational person I'll never meet.
I should be more like her.
Also, I am required to learn Moon River on my ukulele.

After Mandy left, I sat for a while at the kitchen table and prayed some more. For snow again. And other things. I attempted to be like Holly too.
I have been thinking about prayer a lot. I don't know if I quite understand it. So I imagined each prayer as a bird--maybe a dove. Birds can fly. As can prayers. And Holly would imagine something like that.
Then I got distracted thinking about types of birds and the robins I saw on my run this morning. And then I found my notebook and read a story I had written about a boy named Knoff who bird-watched occasionaly. And then I wondered if being more like Holly Golightly would improve my writing.
Holly Golightly isn't real.
And I have spent too much time today thinking in circles.

I feel weighted a bit. In the central region of my chest area. Like I should be praying a lot more things than I do, and it feels like some of my prayers have clipped wings.
A while ago God taught me about the power of prayer by not answering any of my prayers. I didn't appreciate that lesson at first, but later I did.
I feel that same way again.
Only more ridiculous. I am asking for more ridiculous things. But also more serious things. Things that pull at my heartstrings and are capable of hurt and dismay. Important things.
He's not answering them.
My prayers aren't doves. They're hens. And no matter how high a hill I run up in the morning, they can't seem to fly any more than a few feet.

Maybe I'm more like Holly than I think.

Sidenote, as an ending. I need a moleskin for my newest project. Just throwing that out there. Also, it would be nice to own a book written by a so-called Truman Capote.