06/08/2018
Mere fleas...
THE WELL
Although the sun edges the rocks, the morning air is cold. The well is a short walk from the hut. Hundreds of years ago, another recluse lined it with stone and fashioned a wooden cover for it. Think about that. Some unknown person cared enough to leave this vital source for others.
That person has long vanished, but their work has aided others ever since. You think of this as you lower the bucket. You’ll do the same. You think how you are, after all, temporary on this mountain. There will be others after you, century after century.
The bucket fills, and you start to haul it up, hand over hand. You might install a pump as your contribution for someone to appreciate later. But then, you wonder if installing a pump would be doing anyone a favor.
You fill one canteen, then lower the bucket again.
The hole is black. You can hear the water and feel it. You know it is precious. You regret what’s spilled as it seeps back into the earth. Nothing is lost. Just like death. Death is a mystery. So is the eternal filling of water at the well.
Why is there water on this solid rock peak? Why is anything so? Nature doesn’t ask, explain, theorize, or plan. It simply does. We search for resources, and we live on them. Nature didn’t make this place for you. You came to live where it was good. When you’re thirsty, you have to go to the well. The well does not come to you.
No well, and you die. No shelter, and you die. No air, cold or not, and you die. No gravity, and you drift away. No garden, and you go hungry. No sun, and you find neither warmth nor sight. The deluded think they can dominate the earth, but we’re mere fleas jumping in the crevices of a huge cloak.
You heft the canteens, only now you’re bringing something extra back: reverence.