When I got down on my knees last night I bowed my head. I asked for nothing, shedding desires for anything but God. The prickling of skin revealed a field of energy. I fell into a womb of utmost purity. She held me until… I noticed. It was the briefest second, a little blip of a thought of separation that boldly suggested: Oh how pious, how good you are, down there on your knees. And a little counting of “indulgences” I would receive. I was a child again in a cheap chiffon dress, her white gloved fingers pointing to the sky, eyes turned up to some deity floating high among angels on billowing clouds. Good girls pray this way, they said. You must be holy. God rewards good girls.
After that, a little pain in my belly and an image of Sister Joseph Marie. Oh, I said out loud, a little crazy with the memory. I am still seeking favors from some King in a Heaven apart from humanity, a Home long lost to girls like me.
I breathe, loosening the hold of an old, old illusion.
The sweetness of childhood innocence arises and a real desire. I long to make of my body a prayer of devotion. Knees hug the carpet, the body bends deep a forehead greets the pile of the rug. I bow and rest, letting the resonance of reverence soften my eyes. I cry. A tender urgency says, I love you.
