“We walk the earth for the time we’re given, then we return to it.”
I’ve been sitting with these words from the movie “The Way Home” for a few weeks now. As the frost finally thaws and the first green shoots start poking through the dirt, the timing feels intentional. This spring marks the birthdays of my mom and dads, and as I have for the past few years, I am still struggling with these dates without them here to blow out the candles.
Grief has a way of making the ground beneath you feel unsteady. But there is something strangely solid about the idea that we are simply “walking the earth” for a little while. It suggests that our presence here is a gift of time—a temporary loan.
Finding the Poetry in the Return
When we lose the people who made us (or raised us), the “returning to the earth” part of that quote feels incredibly literal. But in poetry, we can look at it another way. We can think about how their lives have folded back into the world around us.
If you are struggling to express your own grief this season, here is how we can let a quote like this move us toward a poem:
1. Look for the Physical Traces The quote mentions the earth. When I think of my parents, I don’t just think of their faces; I think of the things they touched. My dad’s hands in the garden soil. The way my other dad cared for animals. The way my mom felt close to God when near the mountains. Try this: Write down three physical things your parents loved about the outdoors. Don’t worry about rhyming. Just list them.
2. Acknowledge the “Given” Time The quote reminds us that our time is a “given” amount. It’s a set length. On their birthdays, I find myself measuring that length. I look at the years they had and the years they gave to me. Try this: Write a line that starts with “The time you were given was enough to…” and see where your heart takes the rest of that sentence.
3. The Quiet Cycle Returning to the earth isn’t just a final act; it’s a cycle. The flowers coming up right now are nourished by what came before them. In a way, our parents continue to “walk” through the lessons they taught us and the way we move through the world.
A Small Reflection for Mom and Dad
This spring, I’m not looking for big, grand gestures. I’m looking at the dirt. I’m looking at the way the light hits the trees at dawn.
If you’re missing someone today, maybe try to write just four lines. Don’t try to be a “Poet” with a capital P. Just be a person who is walking the earth, remembering two people who walked it so well before you.
We aren’t losing them; we are just witnessing the rest of the circle. And in the meantime, while it is still our turn to walk, we can carry their names in our pockets like a poem, keeping them warm until it’s our turn to head home, too.
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