If I were to do it all over again

Let me say this up front,
(so as not to bore you with a tidy circular ending to this poem,)
that if I were to do it all over again,
there’s much I would do just the same.
That said, if I could do it all over again,
I’d seek wisdom earlier,
the honeyed wisdom of the free:
who are not run by the approving glance,
who do not collect bits of junk identity,
who live as though death has passed.
If I were to do all over again,
I would not pull down the nests of wasps.
I would not have sought to make a porcupine my pet,
nor strove to teach a crow to use my shoulder as a perch.
I would give myself to lilacs at every opportunity.
I would be obedient to the rhythm of rivers.
I would allow meaning to grow in its own garden,
and not rip it up and place it on a metal table for dissection.
I’d do the same with faith.
I would learn to look at myself kindly, with love, and if not love
at least forgiveness, which is a form.
I would grow more tomatoes, and hill my potatoes before they flowered.
I’d learn the language of trees, sit under the tutelage of elm or elder
and every morning rediscover
that I’m a guest here,
here under the sweep of limbs and white clouds,
always just a guest,
a worker ant, a fuzzy colourful worm, a bee in a vineyard,
as are we all.
I would pray more and accept the contradictions of prayer.
Every day, I’d climb into my attic to challenge God,
and every day, by grace, I’d be thrown further out,
into a deepening lake of bright complexities.
I would tolerate less to make room for more love.
I would be a disciple of gratitude, an acolyte of contentment.
I would read less Dostoyevsky and more Dr. Seuss.
I would hang a sign in my kitchen that says:
“Do not look for a sign, carry on without one.”
I’d find a way into my own form of activism and not fear being disliked.
I’d welcome paradox and confusion but be impatient with stupidity,
especially my own.
I’d spare myself the suffering and grief of comparison.
And even though Georgina was a grade ahead of me
I would have risked telling her I liked her:
those days when “like” meant being half-tipsy in her presence,
enveloped in wonder at the sight of her yellow blouse,
her white-blond hair,
shining,
even in the shadows.

29 Comments

  1. Truly wonderful, as always.
    “I’d learn the language of trees, sit under the tutelage of elm or elder
    and every morning rediscover
    that I’m a guest here..”
    Trees seem to be a theme this morning. After sleeping under the stars last night, I flipped on the news largely to hear about the status of the Thailand rescue operation. On CBS Sunday Morning, there was a haunting story about Witness Trees – at Gettysburg Battle Field. Imagine what those trees, 150+ years old saw and remember, The changes they and other trees have witnessed in the past decades. Yes, we all should sit under the tutelage of trees, to rediscover history and reflect on our purpose here.
    Your writing/poems are a much needed therapy against all that sadness and sometimes anger with all that ails our world right now..Thank you Stephen.

  2. I love this so much. I am definitely hanging that sign in my kitchen. Gosh, I love this. Thank you. Alene…

  3. Wonderful Steve… spare oneself the suffering and grief of comparison.
    so many great thoughts /considerations to ponder. I do remember the porcupine though!

  4. I would be obedient to the rhythm of rivers …
    I’d do the same with faith.
    Beautifully instructive for me.

  5. There’s a certain latent hippiness in this, but a most enjoyable piece.
    The ending … those first infatuations of fascination mixed with terror…

    Thanks, Steve,

    And there was a porcupine? and I suppose also a crow and wasps?

  6. Oh this poem… and these lines especially: ‘I would allow meaning to grow in its own garden… I’d do the same with faith’ – I could write a whole paper on them! I’m so glad I found your cornet of Blogland, having popped over from Shawna’s blog yesterday 🙂

      1. You’re welcome, Stephen, although I did mean ‘your CORNER of Blogland, not ‘cornet’ – I’ve just notice the typo!
        I wonder if I could share the poem on my blog (with a link back to you, of course). I occasionally share a Monday poem… but I totally understand if you’d rather not – I just thought I’d ask 🙂

  7. I’ve had this poem hidden in a little tile on my desktop since you posted it last year. I unwrap it like a gift every month or so and am inspired every time. Each visit gives me a new thought to contemplate. Today it was
    “I would tolerate less to make room for more love.”
    Thank you

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