This is what I know:
There are prayers inscribed on our bones, prayers we carry in our marrow, prayers that run through our blood.
There are prayers we carry with ancestral memory, prayers passed down from generation to generation, prayers that spiral in us like DNA.
There are prayers that we carry in the most hidden parts of ourselves, prayers we have never breathed aloud, prayers we can barely acknowledge.
There are prayers that have taken form in this world, prayers that have made their way into letters and diaries and books, prayers that have taken the shape of stitches and poetry and paintings, prayers that have bodied forth as compassion, as justice, as mercy, as grace.
There are prayers of blessing and of lament, prayers we pour out for others, prayers we offer for our own selves.
There are prayers whispered, wailed, shouted, groaned; prayers sung and laughed and wept and dreamed. There are prayers of stillness and of silence, prayers in the breath and in the belly, prayers in the beating heart and in the space between the beats.
There are prayers.

(from the Introduction to In the Sanctuary of Women by Jan Richardson)

No matter how or to whom they are uttered (or not), understood (or not), even unanswered, they are yours. Pray them.