Quietness hovered over the lily pad as if it were a ship on her maiden voyage. Early morning, almost wind still, The Child rowed with her oar to make the lily pad float faster.
“I don’t like it when the sea is quiet.”
“Why not, Child?” The Prophet asked.
“The lily pad slows down.”
“Maybe, it likes to float reticently.”
“Well, I don’t want it to float reticently. It slows me down. And what is reticently, Prophet?”
“The botanical world also seeks quietude, Child.”
“You mean the lily pad needs quietude so it can float?”
“Or reproduce,” The Prophet said.
“Prophet?”
“What do you mean by reticently?”
“Reticence, Child.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, Child. What do you hear?”
“Nothing, Prophet. It’s quiet.”
“Ah, so,” said The Prophet.
“You mean reticently is quiet?”
“They are somewhat related, Child.”
“So, is reticently related to reticence, Prophet?”
“You could call them kissing cousins, Child.”
“Wow, Prophet, then quietude is a state of being calm,” The Child said proudly.
“Yes, Child. You’re beginning to understand the relationship between words.”
“I didn’t know words had relationships, Prophet.”
“Child, relationships exist between everything that was and is and is to come.”
“Really? Then, quiescent and quietness are related too.”
“Yes, Child. Nothing exists independent of itself, not even you.”
The Child stopped rowing and laid her oar on the lily pad.
“Why aren’t you rowing?”
“I think I’ll enjoy the reticence of the lily pad and sink into my dream world and listen to the quietude that surrounds me.”
“Excellent, Child,” The Prophet said, and he clapped his hands. “You’re learning. Nothing will be more rewarding to you as you move toward your quest as the peaceful state of serenity.”
“Prophet?”
"Yes, Child."
“What is serenity?”
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
