> ding <

Fresh Water from Old Wells. The title of my book-to-be. I've been thinking a lot about that title lately, bustin' it wi-i-i-ide open. I thought I knew what the fresh water and the old wells were, so I set out to figure out how I could fit them together. As I started trying to fit them, I realized that I actually didn't know exactly what they were. Time to back up.

I was pretty sure I knew what the old wells were. My roots. Where I came from. My parents and grandparents. Where our family lived. All that stuff. So I needed to figure out about the fresh water.

Fresh water, fresh water. I've been going on the assumption that it's me--me in the present, what I'm learning, the now. But as I explored this over the last few days, it became clear that fresh water is, to me, something much more specific. I came across a quote from my blog last April, and realized I'd known what fresh water was all along:

Buddha said that carrying one's anger is like holding a burning-hot stone in your hand.

I'm hoping that new understanding
will help me
finally
trade the hot weight of resentment
for the cool water of forgiveness,
running lightly across my fingers.

For me, fresh water is and has always been forgiveness. Ahh--that quiet ping of recognizing something that I've known all along. That's when I know it's real. I printed it out and stuck it on the wall above my new fountain.

Okay, so fresh water is understanding and forgiveness. Then what are the old wells? Time to rethink that, too. This morning I got up and knew I needed to go for a walk. In fact, I knew exactly where I needed to go, through a nearby neighborhood to a high hill overlooking my little valley. It's rare that my walks have that clear a destination, so I figured I'd better head that way.

Along the way there were several points when I nearly veered off in a different direction.

It's cold. I could go up that way, and be home for breakfast sooner.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.
I could head straight down that way, and see cows and fields.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.

Here's the amazing part: when I got to the top of that neighborhood, set my foot at the top of the hill, an idea popped into my head, lightbulb-style.

The old wells are the stories.

There it was. Not the past, not the people, not the places. The stories. I sat down to think. If the old wells are the stories that I've been collecting from all these amazing people across the South, then the fresh water truly is my new perspective on all of it. Forgiveness. Cool water running lightly across my fingers.

As the pieces settled into place, a gentle breeze stirred the windchimes to life on a porch nearby.

Ding, ding. Right answer.

Somebody's got a sense of humor.