These days I have one prayer and I say it as often as I can remember: Move through me, god. I feel pretty certain that I have no idea what god and prayer mean outside of these whispered phrases I repeat while walking the dogs or washing the dishes or driving hours and hours to the Southwestern tip of Virginia to backpack for two days. But when the muddied trail breaks open into horse pasture and blue vistas that seem unending, I know that this particular prayer is for space that can contain multitudes. It takes a long time to get somewhere that feels like nowhere. It takes a long time to understand why a body needs space, how the farthest corners of the body need light, and breath. How often this is forgotten. On the way out here, in the last stretch before the road turns into National Forest, I am distracted by how forgotten the houses look. Is this a town? What is its name? After a while I lose count of the Confederate flags I see waving from flag poles, covering up windows, framing license plates. Red splashes of unforgetting. Unending. Is this when I whisper move through me, god? Is this what prayer is for? At night, out here, sleep is scarce. It takes a long time to get used to ground and silence and space. The wind sounds like ocean waves at the top of the trees, which occurs to me each time I’m in the wild. Everything reminds me of the ocean. I knew it first. I know it most. I find this in a poem from Donika Kelly when I get back home: “Salt, once of the sea, now of the wind, / now on my brow, making a witness of me.” I curl into my dog for warmth, digging deeper into my pained left shoulder, ear to the ground. Out here, I can hear the heartbeat of the earth. Every pulse, every footfall. What moves around me that I can’t see, that I decide not to fear. I think about how hard it is to see someone outside of the wild, heart first. How it becomes impossible to press my ear against their chest and listen. How we have forgotten each other. Move through me, god. First night out here, the fire hides bits of red at the bottom, underneath wet wood struggling to burn. Three serene ponies move through the campsite, silently herding one baby among them. We blink through bitter smoke, the dogs’ low growl our first signal to bear witness.