I’m always digging

I don’t know why I can’t stop.


Maybe I always want to know what’s underneath.

Or maybe I’m never satisfied with what I see.

There’s got to be more.


Sometimes I see a glint down there

or imagine what’s below those

unremarkable surfaces

and then I just can’t help it.

I dig. I'm a digger.


You can always uncover a new space.

Sometimes it’s bright under there.

Maybe part of me knows that the only way out is through.

Maybe there’s another sky down there.

So I dig.


Often I want to go wandering out wide

and sometimes I do.

But mostly I dig.


I’m getting somewhere.

Maybe a wiser part of me knows

the greater adventure is to go in, inner, in-est.



I'd really love to see you tonight

but, um, actually

I have this really important digging thing I have to work on...”


Maybe I can’t help digging through the past,

piled up and decomposed.

I extract nutrients,

organic matter reduced to elements

that can become new life,

old materials to combine in new ways.

I find artifacts

that can help me see my way backward

and forward

at the same time.


Maybe some part of me remembers that,

while I’ve tried so hard to build myself a

certain way,

the real me

was already built


but got buried long ago,

and its excavation is now an emergency.


Or maybe I’m really just looking for a simple home,

A place to plant myself.

Maybe my secret is that I’m a seed


So often I ache to rise

to new heights.

Instead I just keep digging down deeper.

But maybe a wiser part of me knows

like a tree does

That you can only reach higher if you stretch deeper.


Maybe I’m digging a well.

Maybe I’ll strike the aquifer beneath all forms,

feeding each variation into being.


And one day,

after a lifetime of digging,

if nothing else

I’ll have a grave

and I'll crumble into it,




There’s dignity and purpose in digging it yourself,

starkly aware

that is what you are doing.


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