yesterday a friend asked me
if i wanted to
make a few bucks
moving rocks.
i asked for more
details and
she sent a picture of
the rocks. the pictured rocks
looked too big
to move alone and
by hand and
without a level of exertion
that outstripped my desire
for twenty dollars.
and so i said
as much,
to which she replied
that her husband could
move them by himself.
her saying this
bothered me
when she said it. and then
it bothered me
later that evening.
and then this morning
it bothered me
while i moved
thousands of pounds of
gravel by bucket
and hand.
was i this morning moving
gravel to prove
my strength? well,
no.
i did it as that is how
i slide a few twenty dollar
bills into my sock drawer.
what does this tell me
about my sense
of value
and how i define
my worth?
it is evidently still
important to me, many years
after having last played
a competitive contact sport,
to be thought of
and seen
as powerful.
this can really only
speak to my feelings
of frailty, my worry
of ineptitude.
i am toting buckets
of gravel by hand;
would one with worth do
such a thing? and,
is worth dependent
on the ability to avoid
pain or endure
it?
earlier in the morning,
prior to hand-holding
with gravel-cradling
buckets, i set fire
to a large pile of limbs
and debris,
on a Pacific Ocean beach
gifted by low tide.
the fire billowed and flared.
my face, cleansed with soot.
the burning pile releasing
smoke of white and
yellow. smoke of olive
green and black. still-hot
ash gently returned to
the beach on cooling columns
of air. some of these
diving embers
clung to my face, startling
me with their burning.
my face wears hot
from the shame of my
labor. the weight
of the rocks i did not
carry, pinning
my mind to antiquated measures
of worth.
the sky wore its clouds white,
the ash from the fire, floating
white. i flinched with startle
when what i thought to be
another searing strike
of burning ash upon face,
revealed itself as weightless
snow.
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