One more time I kick the tainted well as I pass by, outraged that it promises water, only to frustrate again.
Am I to blame the well then, for its cruelty? Is it an evil well?
It is only a well, sadly promising by its appearance what it cannot deliver.
What must it be like, I wonder, to be that well, always wondering why travelers do not linger to refresh themselves by its side.
Foolish fancy. The well cannot wonder. It just IS.
It is just I who wants it to be something different than it is, because I get so very thirsty.
Why not leave the place of this well, I wonder, in my thirst and indignation.
But it is the place where I am planted, where my roots go down.
It is up to me to dig another well in this place. Hard work that I, in my sloth and inadequacy don’t particularly want to do.
DIG, I hear. So many opportunities lie scorned and neglected . . .
It is hard to do this particular brand of chopping wood and carrying water.
Why are we never asked to be faithful by doing what we want to do?