Drinking from A Deeper Well
Reflections on why we travel to sacred places and the questions we are given rather than answered.
DRINKING FROM A DEEPER WELL
Passing
through the wall
by the narrow stone gate,
the work of forgotten masons,
set on a rough-hewn threshold,
guarded silently
by two limestone uprights,
who serve functionally
and so elegantly as pillars
to the tiny temple in the wall;
less a place to come to,
than a way to pass.
No bold stepping through;
A needle,
forcing you to pivot sideways to gain passage,
itself a shrine to the necessary rite of humility,
to amend your stance
to the modesty of the well
naked of of the usual demands
we make of our sacred places
and of ourselves
when we wish to come to them.
Climbing
steeply
by the crooked turf path beyond
aiming for the crest
lined with delicate buds of the early purple orchid
and tumbled stone
leading almost right past that simple place
of ancient reverence and replenishment;
So shallow you might step into it
and wet only your shoes,
so deep, it has run seemingly forever
beyond living memory,
cascading in rustic turn
from earth, by way of well, and fountain, and trough,
to find a way under the wall,
beneath the road,
down the long rolling slope,
and on towards the sea.
Crouching
on the stone weir
for one hurried interlude of sacred intimacy contemplating how I might stack
purpose atop the assertion of the poet
and leave standing
like crafted stone stile
in its own way;
a message to myself
made ready.
Drawn
between two hallowed fields of invitation
each given to stillness and to moving
in their own way.
Announcing
their welcome
to both the panoramic vista,
the stuff of postcard and song,
and to the stern voice exhorting you
to pay attention to the question
you have been avoiding, so well
you weren’t aware.
Returning
then back out again,
through the narrow stile,
released from that place,
back onto the road,
tempted again to boldness,
towards the next step.
Following,
with borrowed certainty
the long walk back,
in the fading light,
and not the way you came.
Yielding
to the comforting crunch of gravel
beneath the firm soles of your untested boots,
Belaying
the old revelation
like a counterweight fixed to rope,
metered out along the green road,
of the foolishness of expectations.
Hearing
the broken voice of your soul
all the while trying to belong
amidst the clamour of the fading light
and the shuffling crowd,
some chattering gaily,
some walking alone
mouthing words in silent prayer,
following faithfully,
the same way.
Sinking
into yourself like the sun sinks below the hidden rim of cloud and ocean,
and yourself not knowing
whether you best belonged
in front of the march or at the back.
Wrestling with that question while
your ears lay trained upon your heart
to catch any rumour
of the deeper imminent question
you are assured you missed,
and keeping your eyes fixed
to spy the way you are told you cannot.
Arriving
at the end
to the scattered leavings of the sunset
clinging low above the western sea,
and the evening star, as if on cue
speaking something
you could make out in full, only later:
You are not here to drink from this fountain,
You are here to drink from the eternal wellspring within you,
even as you fill it.
You are not here to lead these people.
You are here to be led
towards your waiting self
even as you disappear.
You are not here to seek belonging
to the close village,
or the sky
or the limestone slopes,
that hem in the untamed horizon,
you are simply here
to let all things alone
for their year of rewilding,
and to grant
belonging,
to yourself.
Rocco Jarman © May, 2023
Photograph by me.
The figure of David Whyte, standing on the stone, above the well, poised to speak.
I joined a group of travellers up the limestone slopes, led by the cutting figure of David Whyte, full of mystery and wisdom and a sense of belonging to the world and this place that I envied with no shame.
We walked along a long road to get to a very narrow gap in the wall and a short path leading up to an ancient well,arranged in three stages, the well itself, a spring enclosed in stone, hugging the limestone slope, a drinking fountain below and below that a trough for pasture animals, no longer used.
David spoke, of the place and connection we now shared with its story and its purpose, and impressed on us a question:
What question are you avoiding asking?
We had short turns, to approach the well and contemplate this and then we spilled back out through the gap and back onto the road, and left by David and the guides to find our own way back to a church we had driven by earlier.
The late sunset played out its spectacle as thirty people spread themselves out over a moving mile.
This poem is the reflection of my heart from that encounter.