Those closest to me will attest that I have long held an affection for the poetry of Robert Burns. My engagement with Burns began when I was only 15 years old. We had just moved to the “inner city” of Cleveland from an outlying, wealthier suburb, 30 miles away. It was not a move that I welcomed. My parents had divorced. I was losing friends, and a girl that I had a crush on. Things were obviously a lot tougher economically.

My mother had rented a somewhat run-down house near the steel mills to be closer to the hospital where she worked. Before we moved in, my two younger brothers and I were tasked with the chore of scrubbing the house down from the attic to the basement. In that attic, I discovered a forgotten box of old books, shoved into a corner and covered in decades of coal dust and soot. Inside I spied a gilded-edged tome, embossed with the name “Burns.” Printed in 1888, it was the complete works of the poet. When I examined it, the pages fell open to the poem “Red, Red Rose,” and I, interminably pining over a girl who now was destined to drift away, was hooked. 30 miles or 10,000 made no difference to a boy with only a bicycle to pedal.

I have carried that book with me ever since. Sometimes it stayed stored away for years before being rediscovered. It suffered from my carelessness, getting knocked around and spilt upon from time to time. And tragically one evening, while I was demonstrably reciting “To A Mouse,” it flew from my hand and somersaulted to the floor, splintering its 100+ year old, dried out, fragile binding and letting fly its pages across the room.

This year, my wife and I had the wonderful experience of traveling through Scotland, and my Burns passion was again renewed. Upon our return, “my better half” saw fit to have the old book rebound and restored as my Christmas gift, and thus presented it was truly a wonderful thing to behold. As I turned its pages, I remembered the teenager, the college kid, the young attorney, the new father, and older man that always found plenty in Burns to delight, inspire and give hope along the way.

Burns championed the preservation of our memories, both collective and personal. To him, life without embracing the past was impoverished and sterile. History was the true measure of honor and a caution to avoid hubris. A life well lived was a life full of love, kindness and compassion. Burns was keenly aware of the temporary nature of our existence, so thus living fully in the present meant sharing with family and friends the memories that bind us together and that allow us to see and participate in that great chain of being that connects us to the past and to the future.

You make know that Rabbie (as Burns is known by true Scots everywhere) wrote the poem “Auld Lang Syne",” and set it to tune. We sing it at the turn of the year every New Year’s Eve. But because its title is written in Scots, many don’t actually know the meaning of the verse (and in fairness, we usually sing it after we have imbibed a few pints of this or that). Yet, as we move into this new year, his words are still worthy of reflection. So go online and look up the poem, Read it in both Scots and English. Then sing it. Share a memory with a friend about times gone by. Maybe over a photograph, or while watching an old video, or film. And take a cup o’ kindness, for auld lang syne.