But the miracle had come simply
from allowing yourself to know
that this time you had found it,
that some now familiar stranger
appearing from far inside you,
had decided not to walk past
it anymore; that the miracle
had come in the kneeling to drink
and the prayer you said,
and the tears you shed
and the memories you held
and the realization that in this silence
you no longer had to keep
your eyes and ears averted
from the place that could save you,
and that you had the strength
at last to let go of that thirsty,
unhappy, dust laden
pilgrim-self that brought you here,
walking with her bent back,
her bowed head
and her careful explanations.
No, the miracle had already
happened before you stood up,
before you shook off the dust
and walked along the road
beyond the well, out of the desert
and on, toward the mountain,
as if home again, as if you
deserved to have everything
you had loved all along,
as if just remembering the first
fresh taste of that clear cool spring
could lift up your face
to the morning light
and set you free.
…
~ David Whyte, “The Well”
