Quietly the yellow grass, tall from the long summer and the rainstorms of the past months, blew serenely in the light breeze. The wind whispered to the tree, tall and kingly, Lord of the field. The tree responded with a royal bow, its branches gave a regal curtsy, in acquiescence to the sentiment expressed. It wore a brilliant crown, that stately arbor did, it’s colors changing as seasons conceded to each other. Its cloak was colored in browns and grays, its décor intent on camouflage, though alone as it was, camouflage was hardly a likely possibility. High above, across a deep blue sky, as if adopted by a Tar Heel, a striking cloud, looked down intently as it journeyed to another place, this sky its highway to a greater destination. Its speed was never great though not so slow as if to cause much consternation. This sky was glad to have another visitor; it now could share its tea with more than just the sun. Together the three, in dress of blue and gold and white, contrasting delicately would share those middle hours and renew old friendship as grass, wind, and tree were doing just below.
I came upon this little scene, breathtaking as it was, when, once upon a morning’s dew I’d set out for some silence. To my dismay I walked through market, queue, and neighborhood, the things of life and busyness arming my continued discontent. ‘Bout noon I sat upon a bench, sun bleached and painted by the violent discontent of others with whom, though I’d never met, I still identified. My head into my hands fell; disappointed with my unsuccessful attempt at finding some sort of tranquility. But I was hardly ready to give in. And so, from my seat I gladly rose and my journey again began, my persistence soon rewarded.
Not long afterwards I came upon this quiet field, this place of contentment and satisfaction. I felt as if I’d walked upon, accidentally, a scene from heaven’s Globe, a stage set, characters prepared, first line in mind, and director waiting to give first cue. The colors danced daintily, exquisitely, elegantly before my starving eyes. I stood; my senses enveloped in the scene, my unrefined soul in awe, and admired the movement of the actors. The noiseless tensions, the silent action, relationships prepared with utmost care, the scene was witty and clever, dramatic and vivid, a love story from ages past. The script was written with a flawless hand, penned with ink from paradise, each transition, each high, each low, was composed with angelic melodies in mind. The harmony of all that stood upon that stage was matchless, burning into me a peace of heaven. My own dull world, my place, my home, my existence meaning less and less each moment of my visit.
But all good things must end, and soon another world was calling- my market, queue, and neighborhood. I left, my vision stored away, my dream kept in a quiet place, and I understood that the best, the greatest things in life are quiet things, which speak no words and never argue, which never look in jealously upon a neighbors own, which exist, alone, no matter who is looking on. The greatest things are the silent, little things, the visions of heaven, the dreams of paradise, the raptures of bliss. And I will go back often… I will go back often. I will go back, for I know that in doing so I am worshipping the greatest play write of them all.