Something Henri Nouwen said of writing is “it can open in us
deep wells of hidden treasures that are beautiful for us as well as for others
to see.”
A deep well of hidden treasure. My well feels so deep that I can’t see the
bottom. Let me lower that bucket and see
what comes up. Is it bone dry? Is it at least moist? Wow, maybe there’s some water to quench the
thirsty traveler. Maybe there’s something
down there after all.
“Those who drink of the water that I will
give them will never be thirsty.” Give
me some of that. Prime the pump. Let the words flow. Can their impotence, their powerlessness,
their ugliness, be something life-giving, something to be admired? They need spirit; they need fire. They need a butt-kicking.
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