Halfway to Everywhere

In school, I was a wild free spirited soul that teachers never dream about teaching.  I remember gazing, longingly out the window of our classroom, anxiously waiting for that bell to ring and free me to the fresh air.  For a young boy there was no better place than Penryn,CA, it was wide open, warm and full of possibility.  A long forgotten wagon trail once made its way through our property leaving behind a gentle path and old wagon parts just waiting to be discovered.  My imagination was free to grow as big as the unspoiled territory that awaited me each day.  While many dream of being a real cowboy, I believed that I was one, in fact I still do.  But reality set in every morning and every night when it became time for chores.  Feed the chickens, horses, cow, pigs and water for the goat.  Miss one of these and our freedom was restrained, do the things that needed doing and it was back to gun slinging against my little brother, the blonde haired Indian.

Be it school, work or chores, I have always fought an overwhelming desire to run away and get back to what I would rather do.  When the going gets tough, I find myself in the moment with my sleeves rolled up, but when the going gets monotonous.  I tend to find myself bored, looking and longing to break out of my cage of routine.  I lose the scope of the future and want to satisfy my slothful desire to just sit around and dream.  This is an adversity that I must face regularly in my pursuit to be a better and more capable person.  If I need a reminder about the hazards of inattention or the perils of drifting course. I can always look to wild days of the gold rush as captured in one of my favorite poems.  It speaks to some symbolism, I can almost see the itchy, spirited prospector as he seeks a new trail without due cause.  Perhaps it is a symbolism that is in us all. 

The Men That Don't Fit In
by Robert Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.


He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

While blunt, this poem paints a very clear warning of what becomes of those who cannot bridle the impulse and forgo the urge to do exactly what they want to, right when they want it.  It is said that there is a constant contradiction between what feels good and what feels right.  While the choice seems harmless enough, the truth is that we live the life that the consequences of our choices allow us.  Time keeps ticking and our must freedom is always subject to self imposed restrictions.  We must choose wisely when deciding whether or not to seek the mirages of seemingly great value in the distance.

Choose to plod the slow course.  The road may be long and at times may feel improbable, but the lesson is found in the work and the value is found in the experience.