Compulsions
I’ve told you this story many times, but you can’t hear it often enough. It begins with the day we felt a compulsion to dig — as though the earth itself had whispered to us. We dug anywhere a hole could go—yards, parks, highway medians—with every kind of shovel, but never mechanical tools. The compulsion demanded our hearts, hands and backs.
We dug under sunlight, moonlight and starlight. Holes the size of teacups, buckets and bushel baskets. We dug until we were ready to drop — then took a break and dug some more. We endured blisters, strains, the occasional sliced toe. Nothing stopped us.
When we were running out of places to dig, the compulsion vanished. We were left in a daze, bewildered, not knowing what to do next. We didn’t have to wonder long because a compulsion to plant embraced us.
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And that, my children, is how the Great Forest of the Earth was born.
May you always feel a compulsion to nurture it.
© David Henson
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| David Henson |
David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart prizes and has appeared in various journals, including Feed the Holy and Best Microfictions 2025. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com
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