The past is a country I used to know (a poem)

A poem on being generous to our past selves

“Battle worthy” PC: Reena Kapoor. Instagram: @1StarDusty

The past is a country I used to know

Past, a country I once knew…
Now exiled, I wait outside
unsevered, pinned to
sharp borders, bones and blood, 
constructed from its mud.

Still hear its anthem call 
in deafening unison
flailing flags of puppet strings
triggers sparking me to
dances I’ve longed to quit.

No passport lets me in
No visa stamps accepted
No ports, landings arrive 
Stray ships yearning shores 
retract to time’s undertow.

Through impermeable glass
I watch the past go by —
heat, hubris, harshness of 
primal youth; regrets from
pursuit of surface shine.

I claw, I push the partition
of pre-dawn dreams in vain
But then, she rises, turns
I’m looking at me saying,
“Stop coming here,” 

“You can’t recall the maps 
you walked, nor chart such
craters, canyons, climbs!”
I withdraw, wait for her 
to show me when she comes:

Fences, forts, frontiers I
built with battle weary 
hands; borders defied to 
land me where I walk now…
I nod in grateful awe! 

###

reena | December.2023

I’ve been reading a lot about how much our pasts, particularly our childhoods and, perhaps even more so, the stories we tell ourselves about them control us — most of it unwittingly.

…Still hear its anthems call 
in deafening unison
flags flail like puppet strings
triggers sparking me to
dances I’ve longed to quit…

This poem arrived recently when my daughter expressed regret from her high school days. I consoled her by asking her to not forget all she accomplished, overcame, and moved through, and how we all have regrets from the past — and by recounting my own past follies, numerous as they are!

Who doesn’t have regrets?

And while we can’t go back and redo our past, I feel we can perhaps more accurately understand and retell the stories we maintain about ourselves.

Because sometimes our regrets persist because we forget the survival battles, the constraints, the fears our younger selves battled through; and while we wish we could have done better — and, as appropriate, resolve to do so in the future — we also need to be kinder to our old selves, honoring the challenges we overcame.

A little generosity towards our past selves — like we would heartily extend to a dear friend — may actually help us have more compassion for the rest of humanity. That’s where this poem came from.

Any of it ring true?