Jotting inside the cove, The Child sang and counted.
“Jot, jot, jotting along–––
I’m jot, jot, jotting along.
“Child, that sounds nice, but why are you counting?”
“Counting my joules, Prophet. I’m measuring my effort.”
“Oh, I see, and what will knowing that bring you?”
“Not quite sure yet, Prophet, but I think that’ll prove to you, I’m rested, and then, we can get going.”
“You need another day of rest, Child.”
“But why? I’m rested. It’s time to be moving on,” The Child said, and she stopped jotting. “Are we hiding out?”
“No, Child. You’re resting.”
“But I’m tired of resting.”
“Then, jot some more.”
The Child started walking, slowly, kicking the water with her feet, her shoulders drooping; her head bent downward.
“You’re not jotting, Child. I thought you wanted to measure your effort.”
“I’m jotting, just slowly.”
“That doesn’t look like jotting to me,” The Prophet said. “Not much effort in that."
“Does it really matter? If I do a lively jot or slow jot.”
“No, it doesn’t, but you’re not slow jotting.”
“If I’m not slow jotting, then what am I doing, Prophet?”
“You tell me.”
The Prophet watched as the sulking Child came back to the lily pad. She stomped to her corner and taking her green leafy blanket, she lay down and turned her back to the Prophet.
“Child, you’ll wish for this hiatus, one day.”
“No, I won’t,” The Child said and turned over to sit up and face The Prophet, eyeballs to eyeballs.
“Prophet, I don’t like resting!”
“Nobody does, Child. People love jots cause they’re quickly sprinted actions, but it’s resting that refuels and invigorates.”
“So, when will we jot out of here?”
“Soon enough, Child. Soon enough.”