The daily creaking crunching grind is wearing me thin, and all I see is the chaff falling to one side, spilling out of the tired circumference of my life. The wheels turn and the weight of the wind pushes these stones around and around this round room. No wonder he said we might be tied around a devilish neck, the stench of dead albatross is all-pervading.
Others have a river running through them, and a bubbling rushing over the wheels of dark wood, a laughing energy rippling and roaring. My world is powered by silent howls and stuck sails going nowhere, nailed down. Must we be flattened and crushed and ground before an ounce of goodness is found in us?
And yet, wait, for, when the yoke is lifted, the flour pours out, sackfuls of abundance, the bread of life in the raw. Is this then, what all the fuss was about? And I was convinced all the circling was a tired nothingness, a zero drawn over and over, a grinding into the dirt. Now I see that heaviness opens the golden ears, and all the burden was borne for birthing.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com