If

A repost of the well-worn Kipling poem that is so oft-trodden by inspirational posters and other similar hawkers of sentiment that it has lost most of its power.

That is until you have a week laden with frustrations and disappointments that words not necessarily written from you and that you yourself have written off as schlock then suddenly the verses regain their potency and luster.

If you can keep your head when all about you
 Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,   But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,   Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,   And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster   And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,   And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make a heap of all your winnings   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings   And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew   To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you   Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,   If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute   With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


And man what a week has it been.

Nothing really tragic happened, but the dullness of the moments are mirrored by the grayness of the winter skies.

The skies themselves do not help as the cold once again descended upon my corner of the world after that moment of temporary warmth.

I had wished that it was snow rather than rain. That cold winter rain that seeps into your bones is enough to embiggen those feelings of self-doubt that draw you to more closely, and more unforgivingly examine your self-worth.

It's not that the problems are by themselves huge. Not at all.

It's the fact that they seemed to congregate around me at the same time. One disappointment after another, echoing externally what I had feared inside.

The dreariness of the winter draws attention to one's inadequacies from the trivial (I really should have been more responsible and bought winter boots) to the existential (Why am I waking up each morning again?).

Even the moments of triumph are lined with bittersweet reality. Last two sessions with my favorite class. Little do they know that they were some of the biggest reasons I stayed. Students I will probably never see again. My own planned obsolescence.

Yet, we do what we do. When beaten down, we find the strength to stand up.

Not quite there yet. I'm sure I will be, eventually. Hoping to stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools.

In the meantime, it's cold. And I cocoon myself in my blanket. 

It's snowing now at least.

I remember that first day I experienced snow. It was as beautiful as I had dreamed it would be. And yet as jarringly normal as I should have expected it to be.

That day was also the first day I saw dog shit as it was being dusted with freshly fallen snow.

It was still dog shit, but at least it was slightly more beautiful.

Nice.