Once, by a stream strong enough to push a wheel, stood a gristmill. Small. Alone. Abandoned. Its wheel still in the water. Squeaking as it rolled and rolled.
One day, a child walked close by and heard the squeaking. He wanted to continue walking, but the cry pulled him off his path. He walked toward it. Pushing twigs entangled in one another until he saw an old mill. “Is there anyone here?” he called. The crying continued, but no human answered. He walked around, astonished by the beauty of this hidden place. Wild roses were climbing over the walls. Many little creatures were living in this old, neglected garden that grew wild and free in its form.
As he walked close to the stream and saw the wheel, he knew that was the source of the cry. “Why are you crying so loud?” he asked the wheel. He then sat by the stream, put his feet in the water, and thought that he was foolish to be talking to the wheel. Old wheels squeak, he thought.
“Well, now,” a deep voice said. The boy looked surprised around, but no one was there. “Well,” the voice said again. And then continued, “I do speak.” The boy turned towards the wheel. I must be confused, he thought. Did the wheel wink at me? He got up and turned to get back on his way.
“Wait, child,” the deep voice said. “You are not imagining. It is me, the wheel. I need your help.” The boy stood and listened. “Go into the mill. It is dusty and messy, I assume. No one has been here for many years. To your right, on the wall, there should be a big iron key. Can you please bring it here?”
The boy, surprised, figured he had nothing to lose. He went in. Indeed, everything was dusty and broken from many years of disuse. And indeed, there was a key on the wall. I guess I didn’t imagine it, he thought. He took the key and came back to the wheel. “Here. Now I must go,” he said.
“Wait, please, I still need your help. You see the opening at my right? Can you put the key in and turn it to the left.” The boy did, and as he turned the key, he realized he was opening the screws that held the wheel in its place. Oh no, he thought and tried to stop. “What are you asking me to do?” he cried. “You will fall apart.”
“That’s exactly what I wish for,” responded the wheel. “It has long been my time to be embraced by the water. The wood in me is turning into something else. I cannot operate this mill. I stand here holding onto the past. There is no way back now that you released some screws.” And into the water, it crashed. The stream slowly pushed its broken parts downstream. The boy ran after it and then stopped. The wheel was broken, but its energy was still around. Dancing and free.
“I must go now,” he told this dancing free energy of the wheel. And to himself, he said, I am losing my mind. I need to get back. But as he walked back to his path, the freedom of the wheel smiled within him. And when he was almost where he thought he had been walking, he stopped and turned back. And he ran back. Fast as a cheetah. Until he reached the mill and the energy of the free wheel. He touched the old walls. He washed his face in the water of the stream. He ate some berries from the bushes around. “I’m free too,” he told the water, and he went to clean the old mill.
Healing stories are a magnificent and fun tool, connecting and bridging worlds.
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