The Cherry On The Pie

She lives in a little cottage on a busy road with woods rising up the hill behind it. She often likes to climb to the top of the hill and sit amongst the tall trees, looking out over her house and the surrounding neighborhood. No one else in her family goes there; this place is hers. It was perfect, almost. If only they could pick up their house, their garden, and transport them into the middle of a quiet countryside, away from the noise of the traffic. Then the cherry could really nestle into the pie! Last week, after a snowstorm, she walked up to her spot on the hill in the woods, dragging a boogie board behind her. She would use this as a seat to stay dry and then sleigh back down the hill on it to the garden. She lay back and watched the brave birds that remained through winter shout at each other. She saw a lone squirrel race around the trees, hearing Beatrice Potter's stories with every hurried tail twitch. And this time she didn’t fight the traffic; she didn’t try to push it away, imagining Narnia without the wretched noise of the cars. She accepted it as she might the rush of a busy river.  They both have their rhythm and are equally responsible for drowning out silence. Perhaps the only thing in the way of being in her “perfect” place was her perception. Can’t this busy road also be the river, with its own melodic hum? Can she accept that the sudden roar of an engine is not so different from the surprise of a crashing wave, be content with what she has right then instead of trying to push mountains with wishes?