ravine

Into the ravine. It just sounds so dramatic, the word itself. Some semi-rapid flowing water smoothing rocks as the water threatens to rise over the edge and flood the embankment. Seems to always be something someone falls into. Gripping rosary beads to say a few prayers, a whole novena. Wrinkled fingertips press tightly around the beads, desperately pleading in prayer at a loud whisper, bedside, kneeling, white sheets that are cooled by the wind coming from an open window, where the curtains are dramatically blowing. Because there is a storm coming. But she will not stand, not until her prayers are done. It’s God’s will. She will not stand. It’s God’ will. Fighting the impulse now. It’s God’s will. She won’t do it, even though she wants to. And as she recalls a passage that we are all “children of God”, and some blasphemous philosophy her grandson told her about that “all things and beings are God”, she suppresses notions and chains of logical though that follow these impulsive distractions because that are not the way of the Book. They are not the way she learned. The priest would not approve of free-thinking in this manner. No, she must squash them down, suppress them. Until they are nothing but linings of dust under the soil foundations in her mind. She will not fling herself into the ravine. She will not make these one irresponsible thought choice to undo all others. That would potentially call into question her marriage, her children, her community, her Self. No, no she would not go there, would not do this. She would not stand, but continue to kneel on arthritic joints because it is God’s Will. This is what God wants. For the poor and elderly to increase their suffering in efforts to appease this angry and vengeful being. For them to ignore the true blessings and miracles Life has to offer here on Earth, and to keep windows open, when they really should be closed. Here comes the storm, gale force winds. There is the crack of lightening and the loud clamor of falling trees. It is raining heavy now. Downpour, monsoon intensity. But she will not stand, will not get up. Suddenly, and very quickly, a tree fall and splits her room in two and it is very quick and there is no reaction time. The roof has split open, the rain is getting in. The power has gone out. And she kneels still, but this time, she cannot get up, she cannot stand. And now she starts to panic. Now she starts to try to move her old, fragile body in ways in cannot. Her long white hair now matted down her face as she cries out for help. Her husband, sleeping across from blaring TV cannot hear her, as the storm roars onward and she is pinned on her knees praying to the God who has done this to her. There is a vase of roses on her nightstand that have shattered, and she cries because she loved that vase. The rosary beads –