Always Digging the Well

In the untended no man's land between neighbors I cleared some breathing room by weeding and tearing vines. Today, there are red lilies in a place that I hadn't seen them in the six years of working this lot. She uses the leaf blower at 9 a.m. to clear out the firework debris, and I am still in bed after a long night of soothing the terrified dog. In some moments, the collective idea alludes me. But then again, that's what ideas do.

He said that true words always come true and it made me wonder how many of my words are true. So much is unasked for and yet, arrives.

One called me beautiful in such way that all untruth fell away for a few moments. That is the only time I ever believed. Perhaps that is why I am here, writing thousands of words until the true ones ring with the brave reminder of who you said I am.

The light is the thing, no? Everything else undulates towards an appearance or a vanishing. A bridge to cross over. A mirror with which to see a reflection of truth.

Only when the one who saw me in truth dies will I be able to live on without the wonderment of it all. Until then, I will always be digging the well. . . enjoying the work, taking breaks, following the beck and call towards water.

The lake yesterday morning seemed infinite in stillness and it broke my heart. I knew that the fisherman would come first, then the early morning skiers, and lastly the recreational boaters who like to go fast and party and play music loud enough for the entire bay to hear. They are all part of this, but am I responsible for their violence?

No one and every one; our existence makes the ripples we long to quell.