I am on a bench in an enormous garden. A stream moves and speaks through the greenery behind me, speaks of the blue overhead, streaked with fragile white clouds. It speaks of beauty hurrying past me, from so far away to yet farther still. Its voice hangs there, constant and quick -- a small cousin to the mighty river a few miles distant, somehow louder in tone for all its lesser size. The air is cool. The only noise is the stream, although murmurs of birds and distant park-goers can also be heard.
Noisy, rushing, alive, vibrant -- how is a stream so peaceful when it is also all these things?
The answer must be that peace is not stillness. Peace is not quiet.
Peace is the calm that comes of doing what is your nature while the world moves on around you.
Thank you, goddess of love, for the subtly spoken words of a brook on its way to the sea.