by Catherine Bastedo

Droplets also sit upon the leaves of the old roses in the little rock garden; the larger ones, round globules in the centre of the leaf; the smaller ones, tiny beads that cling to the serrated edges. I keep my eye on one, hoping to catch the moment when this large drop will be warmed enough to lose its shape, spread upon the leaf and evaporate. Why does it seem that I have never done this before, never taken the time to really see the perfection before me?

A woodpecker drums on the far shore and time stands still for a brief moment, encouraging me to find my true centre of peace, the drop of perfection that sustains and nourishes me. A beaver swims quietly in front of me, the v-shaped ripples on the mirror-calm surface moving farther and farther away. And my raindrop, the one I have singled out, is holding its own, while others have disappeared like magic.

I decide to continue my watch…but am distracted by a shrill bird call and leave to determine the source of this odd sound. The cry draws me to the water and then into the woods, but I cannot locate the caller. When I come back, my drop—I feel some connection with this drop of water now—is still there, one of the few.

As the day warms up, the dragonflies come out to feast, dozens of them above me, their flight patterns crisscrossing and their wings shimmering. Then I hear the unusual bird again and I wander off as before. How easily I am distracted from my moment of concentration. I hear large wings landing on the water and decide that the bird must have been a wood duck.

Back to my scrutiny—I sit still on the ground, my knees raised. My drop of water lies perfectly on the rose leaf and I wish it would stay there always.

A song sparrow trills, unseen; the phoebe who has made her nest in our veranda alights on a branch of a white pine near by, preening her feathers, unaware that I am spying on her morning ablutions. She reminds me to return to my own inner cleansing, and the loon’s lonely call adds weight to this thought. So I try harder to focus my being, and I seek this little globe of perfection inside me that nourishes me. I can almost feel it now, a sense of peace and calm in my heart that I would like to last forever.

The shimmering drop appears to change shape ever so slightly, and as I watch, the little chipmunk that lives nearby runs beneath my raised knees, stops briefly under my legs where I cannot see him, and then hurries on his way. I am honoured that this little creature has come so close. Perhaps I have truly reached a still point.

And the drop remains—one of the very few intact. It seems to be sending me a message that the centre of peace I found this morning will not disappear as quickly as I had thought. I can hold onto it persistently when I must leave and be surrounded by other people, activities, jarring sounds, and city air. But the rustle of the pines, the scent of the moss heating on the rocks, the trilling notes of the Song Sparrow, and especially this perfect centre of peace, will stay with me.

The droplet of peace says to me, “I will be there as long as you are, as long as you seek me.”