Each day she carried water. She had stopped wishing to work in the kitchen or expecting to be appointed to clean the altar or sew robes or climb the steep hill to the west to ring the great bell with a log as long as her room. She was the water bearer; bearing water was her life. The bucket, the water, the moon, the steps to and from the stream, the humid air of summer, the chafing on her hands in winter, the soup she ate for supper, became one act, the act of going on. She stopped wishing not to grieve. She stopped longing to understand. Women of the Way, Sallie Tisdale to be continued.....
Posted on: Thu, 17 Jul 2014 18:02:06 +0000
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