Poetry

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The Well

I had no idea I was digging a well,
when I set out with small shovel in hand.
‘Today is a day for pulling up weeds’.
Or so I thought,
naively rolling up my sleeves.
I dug through the soft soil quickly
and soon hit the hard dirt,
chiseling away at the solid earth.
The sun came to beat on my shoulders,
bringing the heat of my frustration
to the surface-
the surface I was beating
with the tip of my shovel.
Soon, covered in sweat,
layers of clothing removed,
I realized this was no weed
I was unearthing-
its roots were too deep.
This was a history I was digging,
pulling some bane of my ancestry
up from the roots.
There were tears,
despair,
when I thought I could go no deeper
and that this terrible tap root would remain-
continuing to leech happiness away,
leaving heartbreak in its place.

I lay on the ground paralyzed with terror,
Darkness pounding on my chest,
forcing all the breath from my lungs,
pulling me down,
back to the hole that I was digging.
The hole had become
a well.
The well was deeper
than I thought possible.
The sun had faded behind
the clouds that came,
clouds that filled my well
with their water.
I lay on the ground
Darkness lay next to me,
now a friend in this experience.
Soon the night animals came
to drink from the well.
I too washed and nourished myself in its waters.
Gazing in wonder at the perfect calm
that lay hidden beneath all my struggles.
The perfect beauty that is the fruit of my lineage’s toil.

-Taya

About the Author

TayaTaya Malakian is a poet, an artist, a yogini, a mother, and a minister/spiritual advisor. She strives to bring deep wisdom, ceremony and soulfulness into every aspect of daily life. She lives in Nevada City, Ca.View all posts by Taya →