Sinful Sunday

Divining rods

April 20, 2016

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It is a gentle, insistent pull, so I have been told. A tug that tells you.  Here.  This is it. This is where it is.

A tug that will not stop or go away inspite of your doubts, inspite of your mind which says:

‘A forked stick?’

‘To find out where water is?’

‘Really?’

‘You jest…..!’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. Really?’

‘It can’t be.’

‘You believe it don’t you?’

‘Here, let me try it?’

‘Just here you reckon?’

‘No, you’re going to let me find out all by myself?’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know… what was that?’

‘Holy fuck!’

‘What was that?’

‘It’s there isn’t it?’

‘I felt it!’

‘I really, actually felt it!’

‘Holy fuck.’

The undeniable pull together, an inexorable sense that this is where you future lies. That this is where the treasure is, deep-hidden and snaking beneath your feet. That your body knows and understands what your mind cannot hold since it is formed from language and is subject to such a range of influences that it cannot sort what it knows from what it has been told it knows.

That regardless of what it looks like, what your mind tells you, what others think or feel about anything, the pull is there.  Always.

Here.

Here it is.

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