THE SEVENTH PRAYER

THE SEVENTH PRAYER By Nancy Talley Michael: "War isn't a tear in the fabric of things, it is the fabric. If the earth is our mother, our father is war." Lee Blessing CE TWO ROOMS: Act 1, Scene 2. Page 20. "And no grown up will ever understand that this is a matter of so much importance." Antoine de Saint-Exupery CE THE LITTLE PRINCE Chapter 1 SIMON "The problem is simple: we cannot enforce wisdom. Each generation must gain it for themselves." Maria Nu of the Americas LW700 THIRD RIGHTS OF THE PEOPLE CONFERENCE: WHITE PAPER The morning was still fairly cool. A breeze off the river, sharp and clean, left the air breathable. Later the humidity would make his lungs feel heavy, his body sluggish. The trees outside Simon's bedroom windows looked particularly green, that bright light green which only shows itself in certain lights in early spring. The soft scent of narcissus and early marsh grass spread through his room. Simon stretched, feeling the smooth sheets against the tops of his feet. He reached for one of his journals stacked on the nightstand, opened the lined pages to a place where the pages fell naturally. The night before he had begun reading his old journals and three of them still sat on the small wooden table next to his bed. This morning he read: “Tuesday: Today I told my sister she was mean. She made fun of me when I got home from my first day at the Training Center. Wednesday: Today I saw Cristin. I think I love her. Thursday: Today Father invited me to come to his woodshop. I swept up the shavings. The wood smelled good. Friday: This morning when I woke up I had an erection. It was nice but I felt embarrassed. I don’t like having to write in this book every day. There are some things I just don‘t want to write down even if no one ever reads it but me.” Simon remembered when he was twelve, when he had begun the journals. At the time it didn’t seem important, but now, almost six years later, he could see how reading it over could help him remember himself, get to know himself. He took his pen in hand and wrote, “This is the last time I will have to write in my journal. Today is the first day of my Beginning. I am afraid. Why didn’t anyone tell me more about the Pilgrimage?” He put the pen in the drawer of the nightstand, laid the journal on top of the others stacked on the lower shelf of this table his father had crafted by hand, in his workshop behind the house. Simon rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. “It is a good day to begin a Pilgrimage.” He spoke aloud to himself, trying to reassure himself against his fears. He smiled, wiggled his toes, and felt the smooth paneled floor under his bare feet. The floor felt solid. The floor felt good. He was glad he had decided to make his Pilgrimage before his years of Service to the Corps, even though most of his friends planned to wait. Simon wanted to go on his Pilgrimage now, before he entered his career, before he married. He thought of his sisters, thought how lucky they were because they made their Pilgrimage at the age of twelve, before the age of decision-making. The girls didn't have to make a choice. “Girls are lucky.” He spoke aloud again. Realizing someone might hear, he put his hand to his mouth as a reminder to keep his thoughts quiet. His mother had a way of putting her fingers to her lips when she wanted inner privacy. Why had he never realized that before this morning? He felt like he was waking up inside in a way he had not experienced before. Simon thought about his preparations, the things he must take with him. Most of his packing was done. What he needed from his personal belongings was minimal. He had already packed his shaver, mouth cleaning kit, his comb and brush, his Card. The rest of what he would carry was in the attic in the heavy wooden trunk stored under the eves of the house. That trunk had been stored in the attic for as long as Simon could remember. Once a year Simon helped his father bring the trunk down from the attic. It was his father’s task, as eldest male in the family, to remove the garments stored there, to see that they were aired and cleaned, make any repairs that might be needed, then to pack them again into their natural fiber wrappings. The trunk was then closed and locked for another year, or until the oldest male child was ready to make his Pilgrimage. Someday this seemingly simple task would be Simon's responsibility; it would be his duty to his family. Simon remembered how each year when the contents of the trunk were removed and cleaned, his father would tell the family the same thing. He told them, “Caring properly for these garments is a small task compared to the gift they represent.” His father always whistled a tuneless little melody on the day he opened the trunk and cleaned the garments. Simon thought it strange that he would remember that little fact now, while he was preparing for one of the most important events of his life. As the time approached to go downstairs to join his family, Simon felt hesitant, a little shy. He realized he was hungry, ready to break the fast they had held in honor of his Beginning. Yesterday the family had not taken any nourishment other than unleavened bread and water. His stomach rumbled and a vision of fresh melon popped into his head. He shook the picture away with a toss of his head, but hurried to get downstairs. This morning they would share the breakfast prepared for every young man on the day of that young man’s Beginning. Simon thought about his sisters, imagined they would smile and perhaps be a little smug. After all they had made their journey four and five years ago. He hoped they would have some understanding of the journey Simon was about to begin even though on their Pilgrimage he had heard that they had not entered all of the rings of the Holy Structure as Simon would. He wondered if they would be envious. He pulled on his biosuit wondering why there were no special garments for the women, why only the men of the family would walk the Last Mile wearing the Ancient Clothing so carefully stored and cared for. “I wonder why I never asked them that,” he mumbled to himself as he started down the hall toward the bathroom. He realized he was becoming more nervous as the time to face his family came closer. He had never felt nervous about being with them before. Suddenly his head was full of questions and he knew he had no time to ask them. On this special morning his father would light the fire in the kitchen fireplace. He would burn the sacred logs laid the night before. His mother would cook the traditional porridge over that fire in a kettle made of real iron, which hung from a hook over the flames. Simon knew the family had burned fires of real wood on the occasions of the birth of his sisters. His father had built a wood fire to welcome his daughters into the home. But when that happened, Simon was young to care about such things. This fire was built to celebrate Simon’s Pilgrimage.