The oars dip in the water
and you pull.
your shoulders bulging slightly at the familiar effort,
your body leaning back
as you draw the oar close and lift,
water dripping as the cycle repeats.
The tide resists your progress.
The currents pull you.
The wind pushes back.
From a distance perhaps, there is romance
in the motion,
But here, where the wood handle fits in your hand,
where the callouses have hardened your hands,
there is only the effort,
a body built by stress and strain
to resist the elements,
driven by faith, a belief
that you can push back against the elements,
that by determination and muscle
you can move from here to there
by the simple act of work.
About this poem
A week or so ago I wrote in my professional blog about “The Work.“, about how often determination and persistence are perhaps the most important factor in getting “There” (where ever that may be) in our lives.
The past week, my depression has reared its head and rattled its chains. Unpleasant perhaps, but I have his number now. Head down. Do the work. Stick to it. Push forward. There is no secret. Just the work.
In this world, there is resistance to what we want. And there is the work. Keep up the work, the resistance loses.