Paulann Petersen
	Ecumenical Christian, I learned to press palm to palm, length of finger to finger's length, fingertips pointed skyward, heavenward, my very own bony steeple. To pray to Christ required some part -- extremities -- of my body's two halves to be joined. Steady, steady: the stilling effect of my body leaned against itself, into its self's mirror likeness. Flesh into flesh, flesh of my flesh, to still its wobbling. Eyes closed, I lowered my head, my nose close enough to my index fingers' tips to feel my warm breath as little drifts of damp wind vainly trying to pry my newly joined halves apart. Resolute, each finger took the count of its twin's pulse, as if the rejoining of halves long ago severed was the secret of devout. Devotion first to what my hand recognized as closest to itself, and then words, all things visible and invisible... hear me, here, just as I was taught. To pray Moslem I would first need to pry my hands apart, let them float far in front of my body as if they were being borne along on the separate strands of a forking stream. I would learn to curve my arms, my palms, fingers, curve them all upward. I would offer to Allah the left, the right, each removed from its mate by my own arms' length, by air charged with the arcing current of separation. My Moslem eyes could close, my upright head could hold its own, but my hands would be open as if waiting to receive a gift, or willing to give as good as they got. Teetering, swaying, I could pray, Give me, take of me, fill and empty these waiting vessels to whatever god might be.