Ode to the Black Bag

The black bag has gone shiny with wear and is frayed from habit and rough use. We all know the story of the black bag, the one Robert Bly describes as our repository of shadow. And we also know that the psyche creates in this world the dynamics of the one inside. And this bag is no exception. But it has served you well, has worn like iron, and faithfully held the objects of your work and dreams through days of sun and cold rain. It has held your words, kept your secrets. If it could talk, it would tell the story of your days over these last years. That story would be one of stretching. You have put in the time and miles in order to do the right thing, to bring light to places of darkness. But now the darkness has come to you, and your light wants to flicker out. You try, but don't have the strength to fight. You have some of the will, but so much has left you that it is hard to rise and engage. Even the bag slouches there on the table, its load one you can barely lift. But you do. The black bag sags under the weight but holds itself together even as you bend under the burden. It's all you can do, is more than you can do, and you glean the least particles of energy remaining to make it happen. If the bag can hold it together, you can too.