What the Heart No Longer Wishes to Carry

For as long as I can remember,
I have carried a great weight
without fully noticing
what it was doing to me.

I moved through the years
shouldering invisible burdens—
anger,
resentment,
old disappointments,
small humiliations,
regrets that replayed themselves
long after their season had passed.

At first, each thing seemed light enough.
A slight.
A grievance.
A hardened memory tucked quietly away.

But over time,
the mind became a kind of overfilled suitcase,
stuffed with psychological odds and ends—
nothing heavy by itself,
yet together
like walking the Appalachian Trail
with a backpack full of stones.

And now,
standing at the threshold of older age,
I find myself wanting
something simpler.

The years ahead
do not ask me to carry more.
They ask me to travel lighter.

So I am learning, slowly,
the ancient art
of laying things down.

Not denying what has happened.
Not pretending the wounds were unreal.
But loosening my grip
on all that no longer serves life.

Lao Tzu whispers of water and yielding.
Thomas Merton reminds me that the rush and burden of life can obscure the heart.
Mary Oliver keeps pointing toward astonishment and attention.
And Ryōkan, with empty pockets and a quiet smile,
seems to ask:

Why carry what can be released?

Perhaps there comes a time
when we empty the suitcase completely
and keep only what is essential:

compassion,
love,
presence,
fearlessness—

and enough openness
to walk gently
through whatever days remain.