I see her there before me, in my religious imagination. In Ansel Adams black and white, she kneels in a rushing river. She clasps her aged hands in prayer, eyes closed, head slightly cocked. She wears a thin cotton garment, a sari, and a matching scarf. Both are soaked by the river and its spray. She is a vision of prayerful serenity. I want to know her; I want to experience her peace.

I do not know this woman. I think she must be in India, a Hindu. Judging by her clothing and the river, I think she wades in the Ganges. Beneath consciousness, I form other more spiritually intimate assumptions. For example, since I think she is Hindu, she may be praying to Krishna, Shiva, Kali or one of the multitudes of names by which Hindus know God. Yet, all this runs through my mind without benefit of knowing her, of approaching her and entering into her soul