I've gone through every range of emotion in the last week. Fear, loathing, hurt, happiness, peace, excitement, etc..
This morning I had some interesting thoughts, so I thought I'd share one of them.
Perhaps you've heard this poem (one of my favorites)?
‘Quit’ Give up, your’re beaten!‘ they shout at me and plead.
‘There’s just tto much against you now, this time you can’t succeed.’
And as I started to hang my head in front of failures face,
My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
And hope refills my weakened will, as I recall that scene,
And just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.
A children’s race. Young boys, young men, I remember well.
Excitement, sure, but also fear; it wasn’t hard to tell
They all lined up so full of hope. The thought to win that race.
Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad, that he would be the one.
(The whistle blew).
To win, to be the hero there, was each boy’s young desire.
And one boy in particular, his Dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought. ‘My Dad will be so proud.‘
But as he sped down the field across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped,
Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,
And mid the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
So, down he fell and with him hope. He couldn’t win it now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.
But, as he fell, his Dad stood up and showed his anxious face.
Which to the boy so clearly said, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
And ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
‘I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.‘
But, in the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face,
That steady look that said again, ‘Get up and win the race.‘
So up he jumped to try again, ten yards behind the last,
‘If I’m to gain those yards,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got to run real fast.‘
Expanding everything he had, he regained eight or ten
But trying so hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
‘Defeat!‘ He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
‘There’s no sense running any more, three strikes, I’m out, why try?‘
The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away,
So far behind, so error prone, closer all the way.
‘I’ve lost so what’s the use?’ he thought, ‘I’ll live with my disgrace.‘
‘Get up‘, an echo sounded low, ‘Get up,’ it said, ‘you haven’t lost it all.
For winning is no more than this: to rise each time you fall.“
So he rose to win once more, and with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit,
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
Still he gave it all he had and ran as through to win.
Three times he’d fallen, three times he rose again.
They cheered the winning runner as he crossed the line, first place,
Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.
But when the fallen youngster crossed the finishing line, last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race,
And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, ‘I didn’t do so well.‘
‘To me you won.‘ His father said. ‘You rose each time you fell.‘
And now when times seem dark and hard and difficult to face,.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall,
‘Quit! Give up you’re beaten!‘ they still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
No one knows who wrote it. This poem has changed my life. And this morning I thought of it again as I considered the fear in my heart. When the boy in the poem falls he is always assailed by thoughts of "why get up?". I realized this morning how often those thoughts are grounded in fear--at least for me. And how logical they all sound.
I stopped just about everything this last week. I've not sewn at all. I've written my first page of a book and stopped. I stopped doing the early morning writing that I have been doing every day.
This morning I started up my early morning writing again, and the first feeling that grabbed me, (and, if I may be totally honest--still has me) is fear. Fear that I'm too late. Fear that I'm behind. Fear that it all doesn't matter anyway. Fear that no-one cares.
It's all stupid, really, all those fears. They are such a logical way to allow myself to stay down in my little rut, flat on my face.
Getting up hurts. Getting up means I have to try again, and probably fall on my face again.
But I have to get up.
I shall start again, because at least I made it three steps this time.
This morning I had some interesting thoughts, so I thought I'd share one of them.
Perhaps you've heard this poem (one of my favorites)?
‘Quit’ Give up, your’re beaten!‘ they shout at me and plead.
‘There’s just tto much against you now, this time you can’t succeed.’
And as I started to hang my head in front of failures face,
My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
And hope refills my weakened will, as I recall that scene,
And just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.
A children’s race. Young boys, young men, I remember well.
Excitement, sure, but also fear; it wasn’t hard to tell
They all lined up so full of hope. The thought to win that race.
Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad, that he would be the one.
(The whistle blew).
To win, to be the hero there, was each boy’s young desire.
And one boy in particular, his Dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought. ‘My Dad will be so proud.‘
But as he sped down the field across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped,
Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,
And mid the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
So, down he fell and with him hope. He couldn’t win it now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.
But, as he fell, his Dad stood up and showed his anxious face.
Which to the boy so clearly said, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
And ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
‘I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.‘
But, in the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face,
That steady look that said again, ‘Get up and win the race.‘
So up he jumped to try again, ten yards behind the last,
‘If I’m to gain those yards,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got to run real fast.‘
Expanding everything he had, he regained eight or ten
But trying so hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
‘Defeat!‘ He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
‘There’s no sense running any more, three strikes, I’m out, why try?‘
The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away,
So far behind, so error prone, closer all the way.
‘I’ve lost so what’s the use?’ he thought, ‘I’ll live with my disgrace.‘
‘Get up‘, an echo sounded low, ‘Get up,’ it said, ‘you haven’t lost it all.
For winning is no more than this: to rise each time you fall.“
So he rose to win once more, and with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit,
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
Still he gave it all he had and ran as through to win.
Three times he’d fallen, three times he rose again.
They cheered the winning runner as he crossed the line, first place,
Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.
But when the fallen youngster crossed the finishing line, last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race,
And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, ‘I didn’t do so well.‘
‘To me you won.‘ His father said. ‘You rose each time you fell.‘
And now when times seem dark and hard and difficult to face,.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall,
‘Quit! Give up you’re beaten!‘ they still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
No one knows who wrote it. This poem has changed my life. And this morning I thought of it again as I considered the fear in my heart. When the boy in the poem falls he is always assailed by thoughts of "why get up?". I realized this morning how often those thoughts are grounded in fear--at least for me. And how logical they all sound.
I stopped just about everything this last week. I've not sewn at all. I've written my first page of a book and stopped. I stopped doing the early morning writing that I have been doing every day.
This morning I started up my early morning writing again, and the first feeling that grabbed me, (and, if I may be totally honest--still has me) is fear. Fear that I'm too late. Fear that I'm behind. Fear that it all doesn't matter anyway. Fear that no-one cares.
It's all stupid, really, all those fears. They are such a logical way to allow myself to stay down in my little rut, flat on my face.
Getting up hurts. Getting up means I have to try again, and probably fall on my face again.
But I have to get up.
I shall start again, because at least I made it three steps this time.
I care, I'll be a cheerleader! I am glad you are facing your fears!
Fear is so crippling. I am sorry you have struggled with thee feelings. Sometimes I have those "who cares" thoughts about everything I am doing. It's horrible. But I am rooting for you too! YOU CAN DO IT.
Beware of fear and apathy. They come from someone who is not your friend. I have learned this the hard way. I'm going to be chanting, "Rise each time you fall" to myself! Excellent.
Luisa wrote my own thought. Someone who is not your friend, but knows you well nonetheless. And if he is troubling to stop you then what you are attempting MUST be important. He wouldn't bother otherwise. Fear can be a guage for you. A way to know that what you think to tackle really matters in the scheme of things. If it doesn't, you won't be afraid. If it doesn't, you won't care.
Love that poem. I needed that today.
Get up and win the race indeed. And I agree that fear and apathy are dangerous tools. But I also think sometimes I'm stopped because it's not the right time or the right race. Careful introspection will assure you you're on the right course...or set you straight.
Luisa and Kim already voiced my concerns - fear, doubt and discouragement are some of Satan's most powerful tools. He uses them liberally and unfortunately they are too effective.
And I also appreciate Charrette's comment, though we need to be careful because stupor of thought/confusion are different than fear.
I have been swamped lately with the topic "personal revelation" - I lesson I was asked to give, another lesson I was asked to teach, our Stake Conference theme for this past weekend, and of course Sister Beck's talk from this last general conference. "The ability to qualify for, receive, and act on personal revelation is the single most important skill that can be acquired in this life." It has been these thoughts of my divine heritage and the access I have to revelation that has kept me beating back the fear lately. Because let me tell you, I, too, feel like I am sorely losing this race I am running. But you and I together can keep getting back up. We will brush our dusty knees off and keep on going :) !!
Of course it's not too late! You are younger than I . . .My husband is 45 years old and is in the position of having to come up with a new career AGAIN. It is discouraging but then you think of Colonel Sanders who was 45 when he came up with his special recipe. He lived another 4o plus years, and they were the best of his life. Love you!
Yes, fear. SO defeating! And three steps? Well, I think that sometimes that's like running three miles. Keep on keepin' on!
(((Hugs)))
Grace and Peace,
Angel