Rash Ramblings

A runner once, an explorer always!

I stepped out this morning and the first thing that caught my ear was some body’s wind chime off in the distance. It was doing what wind chimes are meant to do,  in a most purposeful manner. I immediately thought, “I’ll have a breeze today and instantly my day was a little better.” I try to stay attuned to those things that will be a positive factors. We are doing no good if we are not enhancing the world around us when we can.  That world includes the people and the conditions. So many are indifferent to all the factors that influence who they are and rest in the illusion that it is they alone who shape who they are. Even a solid rock outcrop cannot shield itself from all the climatic conditions or other outward inflictions that would cause it to be changed even in its own resistance against it.

I take off running with these thoughts and a question from a friend on my mind. The question was, “How is your body holding up?” My body is more of a barrier than my thoughts. Everything is in good repair and working as it should for now, but if I didn’t have this body holding me back…there would be no limits.  But as God has put me in this body, I will strive to reach the potential that it has. I realize  it is in doing that we become. In being in the regular practice of running and writing I become both a runner and a writer. If I only periodically run or write something, I am just a person that does those things. You cannot hide from the fact that you are what you do. Daily we must look to our actions to verify that we are doing what we want to be or want to become. Whether you are cognizant or not, that is what is happening. That is one reason I have gone back to running. I don’t believe I can become the person I am to become if that is not a part of me. 19:03.72

Below is the text from which my title quote comes:


Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, my own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are—
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


That best portion of a man’s life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.    –    William Wordsworth

The tragedy in life doesn’t lie in not reaching your goal. The tragedy lies in having no goal to reach.    –    Benjamin Mays



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