Ode to Ropes
What kind of rope do you cling to — that which you use to ground and to steady yourself? Does it have a confident twine? Are its knots well tried and proven? As you grasp it firmly in the sunlight do you know upon what it is anchored within the shadowy mist? Precarious cliffs and treacherous valleys beg such questions.
Was it homespun — a product of your own hands? Was it imported? Did you purchase it? Was it donated? What did it cost you? Do you have permanent ownership of it, or do you use it on lease? Everybody has a length of rope — everyone. Everyone is hanging on to it, or being hung by it. Do you get rope burns?
Is it long enough? Is it stout enough? Is it consistently dry, or is it covered in slimy moss with a tendency towards being slippery? Can it plummet the depths of every problem? Does it offer hope in scaling — what may seem to be — insurmountable odds? Can you feel its reassuring tension in uncertain times?
Is it often coiled and stored — dusty from inconsistent use? Is it central to your daily existence or is it, largely, peripheral? Is its integrity innate, or is it determined by the ebb and by the flow of your own changing thoughts and feelings? Is it calibrated and rated just to bear your own weight, or is it capable of supporting everyone?
Do you check the quality of its yarn routinely? Are there nicks? Are there tears? Is it frayed? How has it stood up to the stresses and to the strain of life? Has weathering taken a toll? Are there signs of dry rot? Has it been weakened by the gnawing of rats? Is it still all that you thought or that you hoped it would be?
What kind of rope do you cling to — that which serves as your mooring, and that which hoists high and holds firm the sails of your ship? What binds your rudder — turning and then locking its movements hither, thither and yon? What keeps your hull tight and your masts straight in the tempests? Ah, for solid rope — solid rope.
