The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet
And whither then? I cannot say.
Source: The Road Goes Ever On
Don’t think about the start of the race, think about the ending. ~Usain Bolt
If you want to be the best you have to do things that other people aren’t willing to do. ~ Michael Phelps
Today’s Thinking Out Loud reflection is on Aesop’s Fable, The Farmer and His Sons. Aesop’s Fables is available for free download here.
The Fable
“A Farmer, being at death’s door, and desiring to impart to his
Sons a secret of much moment, called them round him and said, “My
sons, I am shortly about to die; I would have you know, therefore,
that in my vineyard there lies a hidden treasure. Dig, and you will
find it.” As soon as their father was dead, the Sons took spade and
fork and turned up the soil of the vineyard over and over again, in
their search for the treasure which they supposed to lie buried
there. They found none, however: but the vines, after so thorough a
digging, produced a crop such as had never before been seen.”
Note: Has it ever happened to you where you wanted something so badly, didn’t get it, felt disappointed, and sometime later looked back and were happy you didn’t get it? You discovered you got something better. It’s happened to me many times. There were times when I prayed and prayed for something. I was sure God wasn’t listening to me. I discovered later that something better was waiting for me. Something that I could not imagine was possible for me. There ae times when all we can do is to trust and keep on working. It may feel like walking in a dense fog where one can only see a few feet. Don’t give up. Don’t quit. Keep working. Be open to wonderful surprises.
“The only limits that exist are the ones you place on yourself.” – Usain Bolt
Emily Dickinson
Some things that fly there be, —
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be, —
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
