I was driving down Silver Lake Blvd. toward three quick errands I would knock out bam bam bam so I could get to the next thing. But then I saw the reservoir, and I pulled over. I found a pen and paper and wrote that down my pen running out of ink. The idea of the reservoir's metaphorical significance – a back up body of water, a back-up peace zone, one available to me here and now – didn't occur to me until I wrote down the words.
I got out of my car, jaywalked across the street, and tried to decide how I could get a good picture, one where the fence around the reservoir didn't make the whole thing look kind of like a nature prison, as it didn't feel like one. It felt like a miracle. I saw the yellowest little bird I've ever seen, and I watched it flit from bush to fence and then through the fence, away toward the water. I didn't even reach for my camera.
I walked across to the bench and sat silently for five minutes. I know it was five because I asked Siri to set a timer for me. There was no one else in the park, but I heard voices behind me on the sidewalk, in French and Spanish and even Italian, which made me smile. I don't usually hear much Italian outside of Beverly Hills.
It was such a good and necessary five minutes.
It's ironic how the busiest times and most hectic days are the ones that most demand we make a place to sit and be silent in them. The more we think "there's no time today" the more desperately that day calls for a moment of peace.