To converse with god is to touch grass. To feel the individual blades between your fingers, tickling yourself with nature. It is to take deep breaths and survey the land around you. To parse every tree and bush, and every passing squirrel. It is to climb those trees and allow your hands to get sticky with sap. To sit on a branch and take in a new perspective. It is to scrape your knee on your way down, and stay outside anyway. To allow the dirty scab to harden and crust, until it can be cleaned at sunset, when you have returned home.
To converse with god is to smile at a baby on the subway. To make it giggle and spit, allow it to feel joy in a moment it will never remember. To converse with god is to give your seat to a tired mother, not because you felt like you had to, but because you wanted to, and you are worried that any moment she might collapse. It is to look out the window when you’re on the bridge and take a picture of the skyline, even though you see it every single day. To not post it, but to leave it in your camera roll, because it was for you and only you.
To converse with god is to go to sleep without plugging your phone in. To let it run out of battery and allow yourself to wake up to the sunlight. It is to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. To contemplate your own existence and wonder how many other people are doing the same thing in their own bed. How many people have done the same thing ever before you. How many people will do the same thing after you are long gone. It is to think about dinosaurs, and kings, and dictators, and regular people, and the amoebas we once were. To think about how insignificant we are, and how freeing that insignificance can be.