Conversations

She sat in the park a long time, and told the earth many things, but it was stalwart and steady. "This too shall pass," its silence seemed to say. She spoke to the desert at length on vacation (sitting in her rented car with the air conditioner cranking lest she burst into flames), but it was not the least bit sentimental. "Whatever," its silence seemed to say. She checked the mountain off of her list a bit later (trying to shield herself from the icy winds that tore at the roof of the chalet and made the diehard skiers delirious), but it seemed annoyed and impatient. "Get on with it already," its silence seemed to say. Not expecting much, she booked a whale watching tour off of the coast and spoke to the sea (grateful she'd had a motion sickness pill at brekkie), and she found the conversation remarkable. It was calm, then restless; it was shallow, then deep; it was safe, then decidedly not; it was beautiful, then horrifying ... it was everything obvious hiding (sometimes terrifying) wonders you would never live long enough to see. It sang and it screamed, sometimes simultaneously. It was here she felt the truth of being a tiny bag of water, delicately housed (like an artisan sausage); it was here she felt understood enough to go back to her life and shake it up ruthlessly with humor and hope.