I dig beneath the layers of discontent, the discontent which would otherwise be expressed as grumbling.  I find a festering mess of how-comes and why-did-this-happen?  I push that mess aside to what’s below:  murky brownness, mud and fetid water, disappointment flowing through the cracks of desire.  I take a hose and wash the mess away.  I’m sure that beneath the gunk, I’ll find tender shoots of growth, delicate stems rising from solid roots.  I believe in this; I keep looking.  My back aches from bending. My fingers bleed from pushing aside the stones.  But my search continues.