Rae Beth writes of one of her familiars, an old cunning man who lived in Britain over a thousand years ago. He speaks to her of prayers. That some prayers are meant to be shared and some are meant to be kept private. That we must know all the prayers of everything around us. Of the wrens, sparrows, or fish. I can understand the idea that a bird or a badger might pray. But a stream or stone?
What does water dream of and pray for? Does the water in a tiny brook remember when it was part of a mighty ocean? Does it remember being a snowflake, a glacier, or a tiny drop of rain? Does it remember another tiny rivulet? Flowing from rivulet, to stream, to mighty river and finally to the sea. Of being caught up by the warmth of the sun only to become a raindrop again. Of the endless fall to earth and another stream.
What does a stone remember? Does it remember when its atoms were part of the primal lava flows? Does it remember further back when the atoms were formed in the death throes of a super nova? Do the atoms remember their lives in a cliff face being ground down by relentless breakers? Does it remember the endless pressure as the sandstone became rock to be thrust again into daylight or carried down into the heart of the earth to become molten lava once more?
Trying to imagine the dreams of a bird or a badger is difficult enough for a human. But, we normally see water or grass or stone as inanimate, unaware. Trying to imagine their dreams or prayers; that is a mystery.