What would you take if you knew you’d never come back?

An open thread about what matters most.

Hello Friends,

What a thrill to be honored as a Substack Featured Publication this week. Beyond is only four months old, so this sort of recognition goes right to the heart. As a result, we have many new subscribers. Welcome!

To get to know each other, I thought it might be fun to try something new.

Last week’s interview was with Victoria Redel. She said so many wise and beautiful things, so if you missed it, I encourage you to check it out. Her poem If You Knew is about a couple being forced to flee their beloved homeland and deciding what to bring with them. It closes with the potent line: “What would you take if you knew you’d never come back?”

I asked Victoria what she would take. Her initial response was nothing. But as we chatted more, she acknowledged being a sucker for the physicality of life. It’s a conundrum.

I remember when my building caught on fire in Manhattan and thick smoke snaked under my door; I had just enough time to wrangle my cats into a duffle bag (no cat carrier) and grab a floppy disk of my writing (yes, it was that long ago) and climb out the window. From the fire escape, as I glanced back, I had a perfect view of my altar with a picture of Rimpoche and another of the Dalai Lama; I paused, took in all my treasured belongings, and felt strangely at peace. Luckily, my building didn’t go down because I’m not sure if that peace would have held.

So: I’ll pose the same question to you: What would you take if you knew you’d never be able to return to your home? And why? Perhaps some of you of have already faced this. Perhaps for others it will be imagined. Curious to hear your answers in the comments below!

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If You Knew

He wanted to take the muddy stream where he sang with frogs.

She wanted to take dawn in the linden tree.

They left a reed basket of wind.

He wanted the resin of August.

She left the feather grass of an evening walk.

They left all the tender minutes unbuttoning her blouse.

She wanted to pack the folded sun from the linen closet.

He wanted to take the shuffle of her slippers on the stairs.

She wanted her mother’s fingers rummaging through the button box.

He wanted the Steppe’s black soil.

They left moss between stones, the steel winter light in the room

    where she sewed, the jiggle of a key in the front door.

They left a cupboard of embroidered afternoons.

*

What would you take?

If you had a month, a week, an evening, an hour?

If there were no one looking, no one saying: Don’t take that! Why take that?

What would you take if you thought it was temporary

relocation, transient, provisional, short-term shelter?

If you couldn’t use your ATM card, your credit card, cash in your stock,

sell your home, get a supervisor on the phone, charge your phone.

If you couldn’t keep your phone.

What would you take if you knew you’d never come back?

What would you take if you lost track of the children?