And Abraham travelled with his days
collected in a rucksack (an Ark?)
that he carried from place to place
as God directed him
here and there
Here and there
I carry my days too
as God directs me
there and here
There and Here
Some of my days are quite heavy
More and more these years it seems so.
I’m trying to dig down to the bottom
And revisit the lighter days
when I felt free of spirt and ease of heart
They are harder and harder to find
When, in my sorting,
I come across the most painful days
I wonder if Old Abe ever
left any at the side of the road
What would be lost if I let go of some of these?
Would anything be gained?
These days I carry are chips on a shoulder
Notches on a belt
They are trophies and burdens
They are lessons and laughter
They are sorrow and sweetness
They are the best and worst of me
and the best and worst of what the world
has offered me
and what it has taken away
I wear these days proudly as silver threads of hair
as wisdom
as cautious optimism
as gentle regret
It is both miraculous and terrifying
to think of all the days yet to come
Do I have room for them all?
Could I ever wish it otherwise?
Old Abe lived long.
His days must have been almost impossible
to schlep around
in the end
But I suspect he never complained
I don’t promise not to complain
but I will carry my days willingly
as God gives them to me
and directs me
here and there
there and here.
