The tide rises slowly, as you row
against the current, methodically
raising and lowering the oars, pulling
hard, feeling the strain in your shoulders,
but there is no pain in it.
You have become accustomed to the work,
your shoulders supple and strong both,
resigned to the effort, pulling against
the rising and falling of the sea.
There is no magic to it, no great secret,
there is only the work, the pulling
that moves you from here to there.
About this poem
There was a time when I used rowboats a lot. At first, it was hard and my shoulders would ache the next day. But over time I grew strong and could row for hours with no effects. It was the work that got me there.
There are few secrets to getting where we want to be. Whatever that might be. Thinner. Stronger. Deep in faith. Lasting relationships. A more creative life. A life of joy. We know the paths.
There is only the work.