These are some thoughts… or maybe a poem… or maybe just some words.
Some people have a well
a cistern (almost, maybe like a trap door, that is always under them).
Their well follows them wherever they go, wherever they walk or drive or sit. It is a cavity, carved out by the waters of their soul responding to pain
over time over time over time over time over time
over difficult over troubled over terrifying time.
They themselves are not difficult or troubled, horrified, or terrifying. But they have spent time tumbling, fumbling, bumbling like a pebble eroding away at their cistern, being pushed deeper and deeper. They have attempted to explore their cistern, and understand the frightful feeling of opening one’s eyes in the depths only to see that all clarity, beauty, and order of a contrasting black and white world have melted into a colorless sticky gray.
When these people hear me talk of confusion and disappointment, I can hear (feel) my words echo all the way to the depths of their cistern.
It is an echo of understanding and wisdom.
It is an echo of connection and empathy.
It is an echo of hope to know that somebody else has created a cistern, explored it, knows it, and has returned to the surface to enjoy the exciting things happening on the surface (and drag around their cistern under their feet like a silent and honorably modest battle wound).
It is an echo of hope to know that this specific somebody is not surprised to hear my honest (socially unacceptable) reactions to the imploding (suffocating) gray soup when I think that I am used to beauty.
These people are a beautiful gift. Their comfort is real and grows from a very deep place. They resemble the one who willfully chose to dive into the world’s – collective yet individual – cistern (tomb), claiming it as his own by sinking to hell and coming back.
Some people don’t seem to have a well.
Their cistern seems disconnected from their body like they are trying to ignore it.
Or maybe they haven’t had the chance yet to scrape one out, maybe they are just “scraping the surface” as so many say.
Or maybe they’re aware of their cistern, but every time they have to make a trip down there, they find things to distract them from the bottomless smell and taste that all cisterns have. They have not explored much and they don’t know much about their cistern – although, sometimes they think of themselves as experts. They’ve been down there a time or two, they’ve suffered, oh how they have suffered they want you to know. They have a list of “all ya gotta do” sort of ways that bring them back up to the surface (distract) as quickly and as blindly as possible. Their cistern is there, but their soul does not get to know it.
These people are not bad people.
They can be gifts too. And their comfort can be real and true and lovely, but it comes from a shallower valley.
or maybe a plain or mountain.
And they love you
words spoken from a plain or a mountain
lack the strength to make it to the bottom of a deep cistern filled with the ever absorbing gray. Words spoken from the mountain to the cistern shatter against the walls, drown in their own echos, and fall clumsily as incoherent noise. They are meaningless or even hurtful.
But words spoken from those who have explored and know their cistern,
(these words) have the strength to be meaningful and significant, comfort and hope, understand and affirming.
(these words) have the strength to even arrive to the cistern ears: an invaluable gift.