"do not go gentle."

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

                  -Dylan Thomas

It is time to fight. The little goslings are clearly intimidated by the unknown waters before them, but they venture out upon the lake regardless. I did not want this work, not in the way it came, but I am assigned to the horrid tasks before me anyway. Fainting is not in my blood. So I will be strong to the last.

And they explore new worlds of glories and waves—uncertainty turns into bubbles about them, for they have stepped out. They now know. We can all know, if we are brave. That point when you look down and find—I am no longer afraid as I once was.

When they ask you, “can you climb this?” and, “can you run through that?”, you will think, “no”, but say, “yes.” Don’t worry about succeeding. Focus on trying. We are only as courageous as we are. Well, how much is that?—well, don’t ask, just imagine daring beyond imagination. And when the light dies, you can rage against it.

Blood determines nothing. But tell yourself it does—that you are descended from Scottish Chieftains. It will boil you up for battle. Just remember, battles are often fought in suffocating rooms at keyboards and dish sinks, under instruction and impossible demands. Remember to press on, even when the victory cannot be yours. And when you breathe free air at the end of long days, let your heart go wild with war cries.

The little birds will grow fast and lakes will be but a stop on their journey home.

Rage on.

up on a mountain.

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado. Photo credit: author.

"It is because they have so much to give and give it so lavishly... that men love the mountains and go back to them again and again." -Francis Younghusband

The mountains get into you. Down in your deepness. Can’t get them out. Got to get out to them. Oh, how big. Oh, how high. There is no resisting. There is only dreaming of days on the heights, and some reality of it, if you are persistent.

There can be adventure anywhere. There can be up-high, epic adventure, only in the mountains. How inexplicable. Yet you know, you ache for it.

There is a smell of pines, there is a taste of freshness, there is a feeling—how glorious it is!—of freedom. And you will run after it, if you are brave, and maybe careless. Once you are there, soak it up for me. Lay in the grass up high, where hundreds of elk run and skies have no man-made picture frame. Look at it, every bit of it, and then look again. You turn and turn and it is all somehow endless. Feel small. It is good for the soul.

That tired-feet, burnt-face sensation is a token of accomplishment. And the downhill will be fine. But now, you are in heaven’s foothills. You will sit and be blown wild by wind, and think how you could never leave. Not if someone dragged you. And you want to dote on an artist, because a maker of this—he must be thanked silly and then some. But you can’t come up with words that are good enough, nor a gift near equal to what you have from him.

Isaac Watts said it in an old hymn—“Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were an offering far too small.”

Far too small. And there is some perspective. Don’t lose it when you go back down. But I won’t make you leave. Stay in the clouds for a while if you like.