There was a man. An ordinary man. He lived a life as any other. This man was nothing special. Just an ordinary man. He sat in peace with his Maker. He walked in peace with his Maker. He lived in peace with his Maker. Another ordinary man at peace with living. An ordinary man at peace with loving.
This man was in the habit of sitting beside a still silent pool. Some might call it a lake. Others a sea. “Or is it a puddle, and I the speck of sand?” He sometimes thought. For size is just context and this pool stretched as far as his eye could see.
And yet was as still and silent as a mirror. For it was not a real pool, you see. It was a place of the heart – of the soul – an inner sanctum – a place of stillness and quiet.
The man liked to meet his Maker in this place. Together they would sit and look across the mirrored surface. Often they would just sit in silence. Connected with more than the silence of silence. And sometimes they would talk. But not with words. For words would break the stillness and silence. Worlds would echo and intrude. They talked in thoughts. They conversed connected without the need for words. These conversations were the most beautiful conversations this ordinary man had.
The man’s Maker would sometime shake with laughter. An infectious humour that left them both rolling with the pain of shared hilarity. Yet neither moving. Neither disturbing the stillness and silence. The man would sometimes be sodden with tears of pain. And his Maker would hold him tight. Absorb the hurt. Like a dry sponge soaks-up spilled water, so too his Maker would be there to dry his eyes. And sometimes the man would bring a question, and together they would chew over the offering like none of this world could do. Back and forth, here and there, around and around. And sometimes his Maker would say one word – or just breathe a silence of meaning – and the man would ponder the gift – would unravel the wrapping to find the truth within. And both would join together in glee.
And often his Maker would invite the man to share these conversations, these unravellings, these moments of joy and sadness, these connections without words or noise or movement or as much as a breath to disturb their stillness and silence.
And the man was pleased to do so.
And together they crafted real words. Real thoughts. Laughter loud and free. Love overflowing and eternal. And when they were both in unity of agreement …
The man would slowly reach forward over the still mirrored water. Would stretch out his arm. Would unfurl his fingers. For between the thumb and forefinger was always a small smooth pebble of love. And with one last look at his Maker, he heard his Maker nod a silence of: “Yes.”
And the man would open his finger and thumb. And the pebble would fall in slow motion. And as it touched the water it always “plopped” silently into the pool.
But then the ripples. Ripples which sighed and whispered as they spread. Reached out with a sigh of love – a whisper of connection – this sigh of freedom – this whisper of choice.
“Those ripples are yours.” Said the man without any sound at all. And his Maker nodded agreement without any movement at all.
“The ripples are mine.” Said his Maker in words without breath. “For one who may be moved. For there is always someone somewhere out there waiting for me.”
And they continued to sit. Watching the ripples spread further and further beyond sight.
“It is good.” Said his Maker.