Go on, take it. It’s yours to carry, no matter the burden. The sorrow is as fleeting as the snow and half as cold. The world reaches her hand out to you and pleads:
“Touch palms with me, let me soothe you in beauty. Look how much goodness surrounds you. Look how much you know.”
Oh, what do I do on these days when I cannot muster to peer into the hands of forgiveness? Of joy? Of motion?
And something quiet whispers back:
“If you cannot give yourself into my hands; if you cannot fall forward into my care; if you cannot find the grace to be brave and tip-topple into the unknown then at least reach out your fingertips and I’ll meet you there. I will press back, however faint.”
And then, right then, you grab the biggest bunch of flowers and struggle home from Trader Joe’s on 72nd. Little gladness, your journey is cumbersome and you may crush some. But at least, in the very least, you are aware. So, go on, pick it up. It is yours to carry, yours alone. And although you may be tired under its impossibility you will learn to distribute the weight.