Placid

I let things well up. I let them splashdown in me like a crashing shuttle. I don't know why; I don't grasp my inability to make my liquid surface as a sheet of glass.

"Cultivate the ability to let that which truly does not matter slide," was said to me today. The best advice I've gotten in years, besides "Look out." What keeps me from taking it?

People, people like tossing stones into others' lakes. People love causing ripples. It reminds them they're alive. It makes them feel important, despite the ramifications. They feel that once the stone leaves the hand, responsibility flies with it.

Alas, the trajectory always leads back to a hand -- a hand of a person who does not seem to grasp agreement and tranquility. I'm not worried about the people in glass houses -- I'm worried about the people who are arid, barren, empty lakebeds where all has died. I'm worried about people who care not about throwing stones, since to throw one back only raises in them a cloud of choking dust; a reason to cast more stones into the lakes of others.

I want to be placid. I want to reflect the beauty of others, clearly.

I want you to touch my hand and feel a channel of loving energy; pure; powerful;

placid.

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