Pioneer Park

At the center of the park, like pointers to the Infinite, stand a group of big trees. They reach into the sky, columns of an ancient temple, the temple of
silence.
The good book counsels: the meek shall inherit the earth. In this place, meekness comes easy. Those trees and their brothers, the ancient hill, all conspire to bring us quiet. Quiet and smallness. Small enough to attend to the tiny and faint voice that speaks there, eloquent and shattering, about the important, about spirit, about priorities.
Cut across the center of the park is a busy throughway. Large and noisy trucks rumble across that saddle. One would expect the road to be a distraction, yet somehow, it is not. The Hill uses it to illustrate a point. It looks down at our town, with all that Human doing, all that stuff and the race to get first prize and more stuff. We are believers, true believers in the Religion of Stuff. We are addicted to Stuff and the symbols of Stuff. Trucks full of stuff groan across the hill and the quiet voice asks: Enough? Have you had enough?