Turn it all backwards. Turn time.
Unravel the half-knit sweater in
the knitting bag. Remove the spilled
wine from the rug, return the color of dark cream
to its fibers and take them back and back
to the sheep's back before shearing.
I want my life over. To do it
the way that would give me who I wan to be
now. To have again chances I didn't take,
and take them.
Make me innocent. Sluice me of
infractions. Give me soft
pink skin and a soul so fresh that
I may love my mother again.
(Luci Shaw, in What the Light Was Like)
Knitting I know nothing of. But I do recall the sensation of grasping a hanging thread on a shirt and pulling, watching the fabric unwind and go back to its uncreated self, mere threads without design. No, my mother caught me then, and stopped me, before I could ruin my shirt. Oh well.
"Turn time." To have "my life over." "To have again chances I didn't take, and then take them." It's a poem about regrets, lost opportunities, wished for would-have-beens. The poet looks at her life and says "what if. . . ?"
In this infinitesimally small speck of eternity called "life," there are thousands of decision points, roads taken, and even more roads not taken. Scientists theorize (without a shred of proof) that each road not taken is in fact taken in a different dimension, that, for example, somewhere out there I did take that job with the small private firm, or become a journalist, or move to Arizona, or. . . countless other what ifs. I don't know about all that.
But by God's grace I don't spend much time on the what ifs. For Christians every road taken is one taken in faith. It's really not where we're walking but Who we're walking with. Looking back, I could have done differently, could have make other decisions, but ultimately, all the roads will get me to the same place: Home. I'm enjoying the scenery, lamenting the waste, and watching to see a golden Home come -- maybe just over the next rise. I'm out walking, I'll keep walking, and I'm waiting.