A Dry Well

A dry well in the middle of the forest: weeds over grown and invaded her a year ago.  Her stone edges are cracked open in many places just like her wrinkled face.  She is no longer functional as nature intended.

At her prime, she had her well-full of clear water, and surrounded by others in need. She gave generously.  When a little bird stopped by, she invited her for a drink and sprinkled her feather clean.  The little bird flapped her wings and danced; when the moon lady peeked out at night, she offered her tranquil water to reflect her beauty.  The moon lady smiled big and turned the reflection into gentle ripples of silver sparkles; when a woman came moaning her lost child, she offered her crying shoulders.  As the woman washed her sorrows away, she learned there is grief in this world.

One storming night, a devil punched a hole in her heart and stoled her treasure.  All her water was gone.  She became a dry well.

She looks up from her dark bottom and cries in desperation.  What do I do now?  I have nothing to offer others.  Tears stream down from her wrinkled face and flow through the stoney cracks. As they fill up the bottom, they nurture the dying plants within.

Now, well past her prime, the dry well still gives, through her fragrant garden of hope.

I am this dry well: a woman struggled with infertility and infant loss, wanted to give more to others but have nothing left to give.  In my journey to rebuild and restore, I am hoping to find a new path to give back to others.  

 

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