Stillness and Wisdom

I am lying in the park and the day is very still; the kind of day when there is no heat and there is no cool, nothing damp and nothing crisp. There is nothing particular on the brain, either, but a persistent urge to write tugs away at my subconscious. So I am here, with nothing to say except that I am here.

It is too warm for this fleece blanket spread out between my belly and the earth. I unfolded it here, in front of this rotting tree with its intertwining trunks all moss covered and hollow, because it is sufficiently near and far. I can lye out long and pretend to be alone, lulled by the low hum of traffic on the loop, the faint cries of laughter from children being pushed on swings with creaky rusted chains. I can stop and think only of myself. I am sentient, not reflective. The tops of my feet are sticky and cool against the grass and clover. My back aches from arching it. There are ants marching on a biologically determined journey across my calves.

Do people watch me? Are my shorts too short? Are microscopic organisms crawling in crevices of my computer that will later zap its jungle of microchip innards? The questions come to mind, but I don’t bother to consider the answers.

What do I look like when I have nothing on my mind? What expression is there on my face when I am laying under a rotting tree on a day that is just a day? I take pictures with the camera on my laptop. Is it narcissism when I begin attempting to perfect the look of feeling like I don’t look or feel like anything, and does it then cease to be nothing and turn in to something? Later I will kick myself for humoring existential nonsense.

I came here to do nothing, but feel pressed to do something, so I’ll tell a story.

***

Once upon a time there were two best friends, only children who loved one another like sisters. When they grew up tall one moved to a shiny city and the other started investing in postcards. Greetings and well wishes were exchanged through index cards boasting pretty pictures and postage stamps. There were highly anticipated visits. Coveted tokens and photographs. Then one day there weren’t any more. Mail got slow. Fizzle fizzle plop plop. One girl missed the other very badly, and I suspect the other was caught lonesome sometimes, too. But when things fall the way of the wind they seem untouchable. Nothing bad had happened, times were times and things were things. Better left alone.

Then one day they both girls learned that sometimes phone lines can be very still for a very long time without changing much of anything at all. One visited the other. Surprise! Long black hair, rosey cheeks, a honey sweet voice. Distance melted. They embraced in a familiar hug around the waist, they exchanged signature giggles. There was an evening of gin and tonics, three hours to catch up on the last three years. Upon departure they were all smiles and relief. “Love you, old gal!”

We didn’t attempt to explain the lacuna. We know the way of postcards far better than we know the way of the wind.

***

Now… What was I saying?