When You Wake
Your heart is a well and sometimes when you wake in the morning and send your little bucket down into it, to fill with hope and courage, it returns to you empty. It is a sudden and unexpected grief, and you don't know why there is no great reservoir you can drink from anymore, to help you feel stronger.
Your lips are parched and so is your spirit, so you lay on your stomach and peer down into the depths of your well. You let your hands feel around the brickwork, expecting to catch drips or collect condensation at least. There isn't anything at all though, and it makes you feel alone. What will you do now? How can you cope, if there is no grace to draw on?
You realize how much you rely on what that little bucket brings you everyday. It takes the edge off your pain, and softens your thirst. You understand then that the well, and the silent belief in tomorrow it gives you, has kept you alive. You are frightened by how little there is left to hold onto without it.
This is when you must go on breathing regardless. That is your only task. One breath after another as though the sky might fall or the trees might topple, if you aren't prepared to breathe into this moment.
You may believe the empty well won't ever fill again, but you are wrong. There will be rain. The gentle rain of kindness falling from the hearts of others or the soft drops of your own compassion, as you allow yourself the space to feel. There is always the light drizzle of time, too, as it does its slow work of restoration and the fierce downpours of love, singing in the gutters and running down the rooftops, inside of you, with joy.
One day soon, you will wake and find the well is overflowing and, day by day, you will fill yourself up again with all the good things it contains. The things which make you brave enough to keep on going.
It might just be that you needed to weep for a while or be still; that you needed to rage and hold your sorrow against your eyes like a dark blindfold. That is a way of healing too.