I try to go to God with an open hand. In birth-giving, your hands are vital to the process. As the hand, so the hidden places. So the heart. I want an open heart before God, but flies sometimes fall into my little cup of trembling. I will try to pray, and a thought will occur to me that I ought to apologize. “I’m sorry for the wrong I did,” is an ok prayer. “I’m sorry that I exist as an offense in the universe,” is evil. If I let that thought linger, I put the weight of all my loves and life and joys and fears and accomplishments onto the back of that fly- the cumulative tons of dust and papers and medals…