There is a nothingness about me. My thoughts cry to fill it, but with little that is good. Rather they muck up the smooth cool ceramic edges of emptiness with all sorts of foul mud. No steaming broth, no chamomile tea, no rippling cool spring water. Just foul mud.
“Look, this is yours, and now that you’ve made an empty place, well, now we have someplace to put it.” This is my own voice talking.
Maybe so. Maybe I’ve collected quite a foul treasure of muck over the years. Maybe now it’s time to let loose of my own wretchedness. I go the stream, where she turns abruptly and fills a deep pool. Where I went yesterday.
I settle myself into the pebbled shore of the pool. Here there is something electric and wild, and I dip myself into this place. I let the clean cool of it fill myself, and it swirls into the vessel of me. Laughing it carries away my muck, and I laugh to be rid of it.
Into the cracks and crevices of me there pours the electric wild of this mountain stream. Not a fair trade, I think, muck for wild water-love. But I’ll take it anyway, because she so freely gives, because she has performed an undine trick. She laughs in me now. I hold a slip of the streaming waters in my body, a dancing rivulet. No, not a fair trade, not at all, but such are the gifts of the Earth, such is Her desire to make us whole, to make us one with Her.