For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns,
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once.
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best.
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.
I chose this poem this morning because my own arms are full and have been full for the past week.
Here are the lines that strike me especially:
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once.
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
That seems to me to be one of the tasks of writing---as well as healing---to acknowledge the truth of something, including the extremes of that something, without giving in to the temptation to oversimplify.
And I love the image he leaves there at the end--sitting down in the middle of it all. Dropping it all in the road. And then stacking it again---whatever it is----stacking it again in a new way--------and perhaps giving oneself plenty of time and space in which to do so.
Letting everything fall out on the ground---and then re-stacking it.
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[please note: this piece originally appeared in January 2008 at Writing and Healing, Year 2, and is now being moved to the Healing Library]
