When the child looked into the well, they saw nothing, for darkness had devoured it all.
A rope, in one piece that should have been two, looped around the pulley shaped lump of rust above the child. The child’s heart ached a cry so desperate that the child obeyed, extending the tips of their fingers to the paradoxical twine.
The child began to pull, coarse and dry caresses against their palms and fingers.
Through the nothing, something rose. The something rose until it rested on the well’s maw.
The something was a bucket. In the bucket was water as clear and clean as the air that the child held captive in their lungs.
Into the liquid, the child put their dry and raw hands, and their hands drank the water until the aridness was quenched and the roughness was smoothed.
The child tried picking up the water in their hands. They wanted to keep this feeling forever.
The water escaped through distracted and busy fingers, and was suddenly gone as the parched desert below swallowed it.
They ached again to feel the purpose and grandeur of the water, so they cast the bucket, to again quench and soften their hands.
Have you ever caught yourself thinking: “I’ve never done anything with my life. I’ve never made anything, or changed anyone, or done something with myself.” Well, I believe that’s false. I believe you and I have both created more things than we can possibly imagine.
Look at this picture. My two year old son drew it. While it may not be a Van Gogh, -in this universe- it’s a creation. He has made something out if nothing. The colors own the space where nothing was before; they weren’t put there of their own will. Every centimeter he carried that marker he was creating a new picture, it was changing and becoming something new, millisecond by millisecond. He made that and he created something. Because of the joy I’m sure that the creating brought him, he was creating happiness in the world. It was his own, sure, but it was new and previously untapped potential happiness. When I saw the picture, it brought me joy. He probably would’ve liked me to see it and to praise him for it, or he may not have thought that at all. Regardless of his intentions he had affected my life in a positive way.
If you ever catch yourself thinking “I’ve never made anything, or changed anyone, or done anything to matter.” Take a step back and think about all the imperceptible things we help happen. Think of the butterfly effect, but in a more tangible realistic way. Imagine how your actions, (though you may not have known at the time) helped better someone’s day, or even maybe save their life.
Just because you can’t see the thing you created doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Just because it isn’t affecting your life, doesn’t mean it isn’t positively affecting someone else’s.
I’m sure the same could be said for negative things and how imperceptible side-effects of those hurtful actions may not have harmed the actor, but did harm the person two doors down from them. We could talk about that, but this time, let’s focus on the good. Let’s enjoy the tangle of colorful joy that we let flow from our actions onto the paper of our lives, and from there onto the table under the paper that makes up the lives around us. Let’s dump out all the markers and get to work.
Does the sun also walk? Does it search, does it wander? It warms like a hearth, Gives light as they ponder
But the sol also aches As it yearns to partake, in communion with nature Among kinsfolk nurtured
Branches arch, Gnarling, and dancing With direction and inflection Respite from infection
Does the sun also walk? Caressing limbs of a tree A path, a trail, a journey Along the reaching leaves
Roots in the sky, Give sol paused time As it crawls, as it slides Up, along, And side to side
Does the sun also walk Like us, tempestuous clocks?
No indeed The sun also walks, But has no need, Of victory, or challenge, or aching and heat
No indeed The sun also walks, Along the tree’s sky reaching roots, To add luminescence, and shadowy shoots, To the stretching fingers Of it’s friend’s mighty frame
The sun also walks With no thing in mind, But making even more beauty, Of this figure in kind
I was inspired to write this amateurish poem by both the way I’ve seen sun land on this tree on multiple occasions, and by the book On Poetry by Glyn Maxwell. I don’t believe I’ve ever written a poem, and I depressingly low grasp of the mechanics of poetry, but I made one that at least feels right; one that at least conveyed the thoughts of the Sun I had this evening.