The Pearl

They don’t teach it in schools anymore–even if they ever did.

The way humans settle, sink into a conversation like a pebble into a lake after it’s skipped the glassy surface several times, reaching new depths of that lake, new depths of the people who are conversing together.

And out from amid the murky waters emerge new perspectives of humanity.

They don’t teach it in schools anymore–even if they ever did.

The way that older lady opened up like she was a clam who was too hesitant to reveal the pearl inside, as if she thought that no one would want it or appreciate what it was. The way she sunk into the conversation, offering a glimpse at the pearl inside and not knowing that the path to her healing was letting someone see what she was hiding within.

The way that younger gentleman listened intently, valiantly, knowing that within the older lady’s words were wisdom and morals and life lessons he had yet to learn. He saw the pearl for what it was, saw how the older lady needed to reveal it, and wept a little whenever she did. Because she was brave, and she was lonely, and she was hurting, and she was a human needing human conversation–and maybe he didn’t know it, but maybe deep down inside, he felt the same things, too.

They don’t teach it in schools anymore–even if they ever did.

The way that these types of conversations seem to be appreciated less and less, just like the older lady’s pearl. It’s the car conversations, the late night talks on back porches, the hour-long laughs and cries and questions among a group of peers drinking and sitting around a campfire. It’s every time two people delve into the depths of life, hashing out human existence and love and pain and joy and sorrows and anything and everything that makes their bones sing with emotion.

They don’t teach it in schools anymore–even if they ever did.

The way everyone has that place inside them, a place requiring love and warmth and connection and affection–a place the size of a pearl.

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