To Wish, To Pray
Sometimes, I wish that I could wish away my frolicking youth,
clasping together my then worn sun-weathered hands in prayer,
grateful for all I had, thankful for the bountiful harvest.
I long to see the joy of being unmoored,
hopeful of life’s beginning,
as carefree as a warm spring breeze,
carried towards horizons I can’t imagine now.
But I’d rather bury my feet in concrete
and reach for the soil with probing roots,
to be constant somewhere,
to be present somewhere,
to accept that I belong there.
But then, the wise ones say:
Don’t wish your life away, dear.
You’ll have plenty of time to mine the silver of your hair.
Age doesn’t come without youth.
Presence doesn’t come without all the places you leave behind.
And what then?
Why settle at the bottom of the river when you’re meant for the sea?
Time will sift the company you’re meant to keep.
Besides, there’s no beauty in the golden hour without embracing the day.
But surely the wise ones don’t understand
the stirring of my blood and hollowing of my bones.
And in moving through thickets, I’m bound to encounter thorns.
It’s only my beginning and I’m already weary,
my youth like an itching and insulting reality.
When will my harvest come?
When will I sleep?
When can I stop constructing my becoming and just be
as carefree as a warm spring breeze
carried towards horizons I can’t imagine now?
And yet, the wise ones say:
We were young once too, dear.
We were once you, dear.
We are still you, dear,
but a different kind of weary.
We have the stirred blood and hollowed bones
of preparing for our supposed ending.
Our roots may be more secure now,
but they are still probing, still reaching.
But, don’t you see, dear wise ones,
that there’s a chance I will never become you?
That a violent storm will uproot me
before I even have the chance to bloom?
I’m not entitled to time or mining my silvered hair.
Though I am young, I know I am but a vapor,
an ephemeral shift in the air.
I may breathe in smoke, move too fast,
or make the wrong person mad.
And what then?
What becomes of my harvest
if I’m crushed in the midst of sowing?
Explain to me the twisted grays of this fog
if apparently you’re so all-knowing.
And the wise ones tell me:
We don’t know much more than you, dear.
We’ve just had longer to accept not knowing.
The symphony of life’s seasons is far from a familiar lullaby.
We hear gentle whispers from beyond horizons we can’t imagine now.
Questions carve wrinkles in our skin.
And what then?
Will the ultimate harvest come?
Will we sleep?
Will we behold the gold of Heaven?
What will become of our being?
Don’t wish your life away, dear.
Clasp together your now smooth sun-kissed hands in prayer.
