The Shovel

“What did I tell you about that shovel? You start diggin’ somebody is bound to get hurt; more than likely it’ll be you.”
I knew even before I heard his words echo in my head. “Don’t you think I miss you too?” Honestly, I hadn’t. But like sun on a frozen window, I melted and turned all pink; glowed. Shovel in hand I was ready to dig to China even through the burning core. But just as quickly a cold breeze swept up and clouded the sky. Stopped, almost in time, shovel in hand frozen over again.

So susceptible. And maybe already right where I need to be, vulnerable and bare. But Not Open. And so not where I need to be. Standing there in the relative darkness of my mind, I clutch the wooden handle, warn smooth by endless work before me, but not mine. Almost clutching for balance. Slowly replacing each of my fingers one at a time as if I can revise my position in life simply by getting a better grip on this one handle.

If only I had a grip.

Slowly, one finger at a time, from the bottom up. And with each fingers return to the worn wood hewn by the sweat and effort of unknown others before me, I seem closer. Entering a fissure in time. Where all is quiet and my breath echoes like a war drum in my ears and the empty white space. So this is what a shovel looks like.

There in the void, weightless besides my own thoughts, time no longer existed or ceased to exist. All was silent; even the absence of silence was quiet… and yet it was like I could hear every bird that had ever sung, all at once. In Harmony and unison. A breeze swayed me and I realized that what I had been clutching so tightly was not there even to begin with. My hands closed around nothing. Staring into my empty palms I felt a relief coming from the momentary panic spinning out of control in my internal universe. Nothing is more simple than an empty hand… an open hand. Why is that so difficult to see?

When grasping, clutching, reaching it seems reasonable to never look at ones palms, even when your hands are open your gaze is fixed on the destination, the object. Mostly my eyes have been closed as well. Palms. Eyes. Heart.

It is time to dig, but not with a goal or China or anything specific and not with such a tight grip that I can’t feel the solid tool in my hand. With too much force I will never unearth anything worthwhile. The blister and splinters mark the path and are part of the journey. But they are not the goal or the key.

Maybe it is about how to hold all things: not so tightly, with tenderness and the knowledge that the best things cant be held too long.

And there are some things which are buried because they are dead not because they are hidden or lost. Treasure is worth digging for, but a corpse is better left where it lies. With a fresh lung’s breath, I open my hands, raise my palms and start digging. Maybe to get hurt, but not from holding on too tightly.