You took rocks from the ground and held them in your hands. You knew who could make them shine, cut diamonds, but you hid them. In a pocket, wrapped in cloth. In a basket, under another rock. The diamond cutter beckoned, said he’d make them shine, but you hid them further. You polished and chiseled with no end to your fervor, and yet – try as you might – dusty rocks they were still, jagged edges, cutting your hands. You bled and still you grasped them tightly as you could. Holding on with all your might even through a storm. Though the wind blew and you blew with it you kept them still. Safely, hidden away. You tried to make them shine but could not coax the glimmer. Still you bled and still you kept them closer. Until the tears flowed from your eyes you held them, until they stayed, stuck to your hands, you held them. No way to let go. The diamond cutter beckoned, said he could pry them loose, and still you kept them. No glimmer on the rocks, none at all now, just dust and blood. Where are the diamonds now?
This pain you feel?
Give them to the diamond cutter. Diamonds are what he cuts, rocks are what he breaks – freedom is what he makes. You think your rocks are too many. He can never cut them all to shine. Covered in your blood, in dust and grime. Too deeply embedded. Too far in to find. Too many of the same. Too many times you’ve tried.
Give them to the diamond cutter. This pain you feel? Let go. Give it to the diamond cutter. No, not the man with closed doors; he’s the diamond cutter, with doors thrown open, a feast prepared. Rocks are his business. And feasts. And binding wounds. So give them to the diamond cutter.