“Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after.”
I don’t know who said this, and I haven’t bothered to look it up, but I like it. (If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big quote person).
Whoever he/she was really touched on an important ideal. Too often in life, we think only about the end results of our endeavors. Rarely do we think to enjoy the steps that it takes to get us there.
Where, in fact, is there?
And once we get there, we’re soon off to another there. There are too many theres and not enough hows.
How will we get there?
What will it take to get there?
I find that if we really examine the process that allows us to get places and do things, we find the ultimate culmination even more rewarding. Good athletes know this.
They recognize the importance of appreciation. They realize how crucial it is to acknowledge everything and everyone that has made them what they are. They understand how crucial it is to enjoy their training and absorb its benefits with care. They know that winning games and races are great, but that the playing of the game is better.
If life is a journey, we all know where there is. But how will you get there?
‘Still I Rise’
(Editor’s note: Guillaume compiled the following entry in her journal of ‘The Accidental Athlete” after learning earlier this year her junior cross country season might be cut short by stress factures in both feet. I would not want to have been the doctor who delivered the diagnosis.)
Most stories start out happy. Authors hook you with a jovial tone and playful characters that leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy. Then comes the climax, which is exciting, sad, or both, and you become anxious and worried. But then the author recaptures your imagination and refreshes you with a satisfying end that sweeps you off your feet.
Good thing this isn’t a story.
Memoirs are reflective. They put forth a raw and detailed account of a person’s struggle for acceptance, redemption, salvation, achievement, or life itself. If he/she lived through the experience, he/she will use it to inspire and touch others. If he/she didn’t come through so enlightened, someone else will recall the occurrence and use it as an example to teach others a lesson.
Good thing this isn’t a memoir.
Truth be told, I have no definition for the collection of words that follow. They don’t particularly flow fluidly or tell a compelling narrative. They’re not written chronologically or in diary form. Really, they’re just . . . me. I cannot label what I’m about to say. All I can say is … well … Here it goes …
Your heart is weeping. Your soul is void. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing is more devastating than having your love, your passion, your foundation, your very reason for getting up in the morning, your LIFE, ruthlessly ripped from beneath your feet like a finicky carpet.
At first, you must fall. You must land hard on the cold ground underneath you and suffer the wretched pain. That’s the easy part. It is then you must begin the tedious and torturous process of standing up. That’s the hard part. Hard, but not impossible. You will want to stand too quickly. You will want to fall back down. Human nature tells us so. But if you want to stand, you will. And when you do stand, you will stand taller, stronger, and smarter than you stood before.