The Glimpse

The Glimpse

Above a river that rushed, unstopping,

A field of sorrow lay lush and blue 

I watched the waves of wind blow by

And the ghost of a child who played there, too

 I sat and thought of life awhile, as longing brushed against my face,

And weeped, but for what, I can't say, nor can spread.

I weeped for this place, and for something so far

In the past, it seemed a fog lay there instead.

But my wonder, my mem’ry, my yearning, my sorrow

They became, not one, but a million souls

(all equally wistful and equally rash) 

For how many of us, in the rush of tomorrow

Glance over our shoulder to mourn for the past?

All the while, we grasp and beseech 

That golden sunset we never quite reach.

It seems so cruel, that becoming ourselves

Means having our childhood, but losing a piece. 

And harder so, when turn our gaze backwards, 

To recall how malformed our intentions, our deeds

To then see the scars etched deep in our hands,

The soft down of youth, now a distant dream.

It is here that I muse, in the field we all stand in,

How easy the chorus of loss or regret

Arises when albums are opened and scanned,

When memories surface, the ones we forget.

It is here, in the field, where we used to play

Our younger selves can gently say,

“I am here, so you may know,

Of the things you have faced, you continue to grow.”

How beautiful it is that we have the past

Scraped knees, graduations, those friends we lose

To see how far we’ve come at last

And the power we have each day to choose

How merciful that life goes on

The world keeps turning

The sun still dawns

Our past holds on, so we may feel, 

The strength we have to endure and to heal.

 

Nostalgia is a very unassuming but powerful force. At times, it seems to consume us, particularly if we revisit places of our youth or see people from our past. For this poem, I reflected on returning to a forest I used to explore when I was younger, and how I felt at a loss because I am now a different person. We must “Lose a piece” of ourselves to change, but we keep our past selves with us that survive through our memory. Ruminating on my childhood, memories seem to “fog” as I lose memory of my younger years. I understood why the older generations, those millions of souls, seemed to get dreamy or misty eyed when they recalled their youth. Looking back on the long river of our lives, it is easy to miss the “golden hue” of the past or regret the mistakes we have made. However, while I was sad that I had become a different person since my childhood, an unsuspected feeling of grace glowed over all these experiences. This forgiving spirit showed me the beauty of growing up, and how changing, although melancholy, is also an amazing gift. It is such a forgiving force, life; each day we start again, and with each dawn we have an opportunity to choose change. This poem is written to run like the river in my forest, but also like our memories: sometimes they flow easily, but other times the rhythm is jolted and inconsistent. Not everyone’s place of memory is nature, but we all have our own “fields” that bring us back to the past. These times of looking back can provide a window to see the wisdom we’ve gained from life, and why it keeps turning and why we change. It is an opportunity to forgive ourselves and realize our worth.