As a kid, I believed that if we dug deep enough, we could come out on the other side of the world. It was a hopeful thought, and I’d rally the neighbourhood to dig forts and tunnels. Science kiboshed that theory.
Then there was the famous escape from Alcatraz: three inmates allegedly digging their way out with a spoon. If they could do it so could I. That my prison had doors didn’t erase my hope. One day, I would grow up and escape.
It’s been years since I’ve plotted my flight – well over forty since the day I left my childhood home – and suddenly I’m thinking of digging again. Not to escape, this time, but to discover.
Ric is home again, having spent all but five days in the past month in hospital. We’ve settled back into a routine, but I am exhausted.
As I catch a few minutes to rest my body, I feel weighted down, as if life has shovelled one dirt load of responsibility on top of another.
How long has this been going on? I wonder. The exhaustion runs deep.
That’s when I think about digging again. Spoonful by spoonful, how far would I have to excavate to get to that inner spring of renewal?
Please join me this week in pondering what we find when we dig? Of course, your interpretation of the prompt may be different from mine, and that is wonderful. Photos, poetry, prose, artwork, or music – all acceptable forms of response. Just create a post and link back here, or leave a comment below. You are all buried treasure, and I’m looking forward to digging your inspirations. (See what I did there – exhausted to the point of silliness.)