She sat in her boat, adrift on a still ocean.
She had been here a long time, a survivor of storms, waiting for the way to reveal itself.
In the last days, sunlight had appeared, soft and tentative, tracing ripples on the water.
The fog, ever-present, faded into mist.
And there, in the mist, another boat, and in it—a figure she knew.
A fellow sailor, lost like her, on this wide, still ocean.
In the beginning a Seed is planted in the darkest place within. The Seed is warm and happy in darkness, its hard impenetrable shell protecting it from the incessant noise beyond.
Around the Seed things happen. Things come and things go. But things are simply things and are of no great consequence to the grand scheme of life.
The Seed, even in its dormancy, sings a quiet song. Its song is only recognisable to those who can hear, and those who can hear are not yet listening. So, the Seed hums its song and waits.
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