Chapter 30: Our Days Do Not Come Back

The Words: Zhu Ziqing, 1922

Swallows fly away, and later they come back. Willows lose their leaves, and later they turn green again. Peach blossoms fall, and the next spring they open once more. With these simple pictures begins a short essay called "Rush", written in Chinese in March 1922. In my own words, the writer then says: but our days, once they are gone, never return. Where have they gone? Did someone take them, or did they run away by themselves? And under all his questions lies one more: what will I do with the days that are still mine?

The essay is only a page or two long. The writer counts that more than eight thousand of his days have already slipped out of his hands, like a single drop of water falling from the point of a needle into the sea. He sees the days leave in the smallest moments. When he washes his hands, the day passes through the basin. When he eats, it passes through the rice bowl. When he sits in silence, it passes before his quiet eyes.

The Life Behind the Words

Zhu Ziqing was born in 1898, in a time of great change in East Asia. He studied philosophy at university and then worked for many years as a teacher, first in schools and later as a professor of literature. He began as a poet, but he became best known for his prose essays: short, clear pieces full of quiet feeling. One of them describes his father climbing with difficulty onto a railway platform to buy him oranges before a journey, while the son watches the old man's back. Zhu Ziqing died of illness in 1948.

When he wrote "Rush", he was a young teacher in his early twenties. The essay comes from that age when a person first notices that time is not endless. But it is not a cry of despair. In the middle of it, he asks why he should pass through this world for nothing, and he does not want to leave without a trace. The sadness of the essay is the sadness of someone who cares very much about his life. He counts his days because each one matters to him.

What the Words Ask of Us

The words do not ask us to be afraid of time. They ask us to notice it. Most days pass without our seeing them go, like water through the basin. The essay is a gentle knock on the door. It says: this day is a real thing, and it is yours. You cannot keep it, but you can choose what to fill it with. A day that is noticed is never completely lost, even after it has gone.

Think of Mateo, a father of two small children. His days are full of shoes, lunches, laundry and work, and he often feels that whole weeks disappear while he is busy. One evening his daughter asks him to sit with her and watch the sky grow dark. He almost says that he has no time. Then he sits down. They watch for ten minutes, and she tells him the names she has given to three stars. That day did not stay either. But it did not slip away unseen. Mateo remembers it, and perhaps she will too.

Similar Words From Around the World

Almost two thousand years earlier, the philosopher Seneca, writing in Latin in his essay On the Shortness of Life, said something that answers this worry. In my own words: we do not really have a short time; we lose much of it. Life is long enough, and it is given generously, if we use it well. Seneca agrees that days run away from us, but he puts the matter in our own hands. The problem is not that time is too short. It is that we often let it go without thinking.

An old prayer in the Hebrew Bible, Psalm 90, asks, in my own paraphrase: teach us to count our days, so that we may gain a wise heart. Zhu Ziqing really did count his days, more than eight thousand of them. The psalm shows a good reason for counting. It is not to frighten ourselves, but to grow wiser. When we remember that our days have a number, we stop treating them as if they were endless, and we begin to ask what is truly worth our time.

Living It Today

These words can speak to anyone. A student may feel that the years of school will never end, while an older person may feel that the years now fly. For each of them, the essay offers the same simple help: look at the day while it is here. You do not need to fill every hour with great deeds. A walk, a meal eaten slowly, a talk with a friend and a page read with care are all ways of using a day well.

Here is something to try this week. Each evening, before you sleep, write one short sentence about the day: one thing you saw, did or felt that you want to remember. After seven days, read the seven sentences together. You will find that your days did not simply vanish. They left small marks, and you caught them. Our days do not come back, but each new morning brings a fresh one, and it is waiting for you to make it your own.

Chapter 31: Adding One Golden Nail

The Words: Yosano Akiko, 1922

In 1922, Yosano Akiko published a collection of tanka, short poems of five lines written in Japanese, under the title Dreams of Grass. The poem that opens the book is still loved and quoted today. In my own words, it says: into the great hall that people have been building and caring for since the very beginning of time, I too drive one golden nail. The picture is of a huge building that no single person could ever finish. Countless hands have worked on it through the ages, and the poet steps forward to add her own small part, made of gold.

When this book appeared, Yosano Akiko was in her forties and had been writing for more than twenty years. She did not see herself as the builder of the whole hall, and she did not see herself as nothing either. Both feelings live in the poem at once: deep humility before the long work of humanity, and quiet pride in the one bright nail that is hers.

The Life Behind the Words

Yosano Akiko was born in 1878 and grew up in a family that ran a shop. As a girl she read widely, and she began to write poems while she was still young. Her first collection, Tangled Hair, appeared in 1901 and made her famous at once. Its poems were bold, young and full of strong feeling, and many readers had never read anything like them. She married the poet Yosano Tekkan, and together they raised a large family, while she continued to write through all the busy years.

She worked with remarkable energy. Besides thousands of tanka, she wrote essays, children's stories and new poems in freer forms. She also retold the great old court novel The Tale of Genji in modern Japanese, so that ordinary readers of her time could enjoy it. In 1921 she helped to found a school, where she also taught. She died in 1942. Looking at such a full life, we can understand the golden nail. She knew how much work she had done, and she also knew that it was only one part of something far larger.

What the Words Ask of Us

The poem asks us to see our lives as part of a long shared work. Every person who has ever taught a child, grown food, built a road, written a song or comforted a friend has added something to the great hall of human life. We did not begin this building, and we will not finish it. That might sound sad, but the poem makes it feel like an honour. We are invited in. There is a place for our nail, and no one else can drive it for us.

Think of Ingrid, who has worked for thirty years in a school kitchen. No one writes about her in newspapers. But every day, children eat meals that she has prepared with care, and they go back to their lessons a little stronger because of it. When she retires, she may think that her work was small. Yosano Akiko's poem would say something else: Ingrid has driven her golden nail. The hall is a little firmer because she was there.

Similar Words From Around the World

In his book On Old Age, the philosopher Cicero, writing in Latin more than two thousand years ago, quotes an older poet named Caecilius. In my own words: the farmer plants trees that will help another generation. The farmer knows that he may never sit in their shade, yet he plants them gladly. Cicero's picture looks forward, to people not yet born, while Yosano Akiko's poem looks back to the beginning of time. Together they place each of us in the middle of a long line, receiving from those before and giving to those after.

A traditional saying in Turkish puts the same truth very simply: drop by drop, a lake forms. No single drop makes a lake, and no single nail makes a hall. But without the drops there would be no lake at all. The saying adds a note of patience to the poem. Our part may feel tiny on any given day. Over a lifetime, and together with the parts of many others, small gifts become something deep and wide.

Living It Today

These words can help anyone who wonders whether their life matters. A young person at the start of a career, a parent at home with small children and an older person looking back over many years can all ask the same question: what is my golden nail? It may be a skill shared with others, a family held together, a garden, a kindness that someone still remembers. It does not need to be famous. It only needs to be given with care.

Here is something to try this week. Think of one person whose work made your life better, though you rarely think of them: a teacher, a neighbour, someone who cleans, repairs or delivers. Find a way to thank them, in words or in a small note. Then, at the end of the week, name one golden nail of your own, however small. The great hall of life is still being built, and today there is room in it for you.