From Below

You are the Lord of Wells.
You measure us by our darkness
and our falling.
We listen for a sound that comes
from below.
Enough about my heart and yours.
There are eight billion thirsts
but only one spring.
I vow no longer to confuse
the name of my desire
with your hidden aquifer
of silence.

One of St. Brigid's Wells in Ireland
With their arches, rose windows and spires, the great cathedrals of Europe are portals leading upward to the Divine. Yet in the British Isles, sacred wells are portals leading downward to the Divine. To be whole, we need both doors to God, spirits soaring, roots sinking. A ray of breath threads the crown of my head to a distant star, yet the soles of my bare feet are mouths of praise.