A friend posted a poem on Facebook today.. it's rather old, and the language somewhat antiquated, but it happened to be the reminder I needed, and it got me thinking. I'll subject you to my thoughts in a moment,
But first....the poem.
Say Not The Struggle Nought Availeth by Arthur Clough.
"Say not the struggle nought availeth
The labor and the wounds are vain
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars.
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only
When daylight comes, comes in the light.
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright."
Lately I have caught myself adopting the very attitude which the poem decrys - that the struggle nought availeth. After all, even though occasionally I catch glimpses of how I've changed, sometimes it doesn't feel as drastic as it is. In the moment, in the day-to-day, the mundane, I don't see the struggle availing at all! All i see is the darkness. And if anything, life seems to get more and more difficult. And what does one do when 'the sun climbs slow, how slowly'?
The phrase 'if hopes were dupes, fears may be liars', has always grabbed me, though. It may be my favorite line in the entire poem. Disappointment has taught me to be wary of hope, for it seems that every time I hope, I am hurt by it......Hope is said to be the most addicting drug of them all, yet the most fatal. It has the greatest power to hurt me, to crush me. Consequently, I'm afraid I don't quite believe in hope.
(which, is strangely ironic, considering that my name means hope)
But, that line reminds me that, if I distrust hope, why do I trust fear? Why am I so often prone to believe my fears, yet write off my hopes as impossible? I can't live my whole life letting my hopes be duped by fear, held captive to the invariable 'what if?'.
But, if I actually follow the advice given in this poem, and remind myself that the struggle does avail much, then.....when does the struggle end?
Does it end? Or is it interminable? It frequently seems so, especially in the moment?
The answer I found in yet another poem, this time by Christina Rosetti.
"Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the journey take the whole long day?
From morn til night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour shall you find the sum.
Will be there beds for me, and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come."
No matter how long the road, how hard the journey, how slow the climb, how fierce the fight, there will be - there must be - rest at last. Rest when the war is won, and the summit reached.
As John Buchanan is reported to have said, "You have chosen the roughest road, but it goes straight to the hilltop".
On that hilltop is victory. And on the hilltop we will finally be free.
Quite frankly, I can't wait for that. It's the mountain that's currently daunting me. Because right now, on the ground, I can't even see the summit. All I can glimpse, from my vantage point, is the slope stretching ever higher.
And I guess that's where faith comes in. Not only the faith to believe that the summit exists, but that it is possible to reach it. There are those who have gone before, who prove that it can indeed be done, but can it be done by me?
I hope so.
I hope so with all my heart.
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