Walking toward the ravine while he napped on the rest stop picnic table, she
thought
about what her mother said about capacity. How we all have this great capacity
for
acceptance. She stood now at the edge of the drop-off and practiced accepting.
She
accepted the plant and root, the wheat and water, the wounded rocky land, the
zipped-
lipped stones, the delicate sighs of cars just far enough away to be pleasant.
Then she
practiced being accepted. (This was harder.) She still felt her heart was a
small flat-faced
owl drugged by the daytime. She wanted to make an echo, but was unsure of what
would
return to her, if she could suck in the same sound she spit out. She settled on
a laugh. And
when it came back to her it was like clapping and cheering—a whole crowd of singing
hers spurring on her strange human attempt to not suffer.
