LEAVING THE ARENA (Round 4)

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...And then the arena doors were closed. There I stood,  out-of-body watching my tight-fisted swollen hand cling to the handle.   The arena doors, now in my weakness, seemed like dragging weights. The final drawn-out clash of the cathedral doors, like the final note of "The Swan Song," jolted my mind from its fog.

The silent, breathless walk was interrupted only by tapping footsteps. Heavy eyes hung from a drooped face that grazed the grey pavement. 

My blank-stare thoughts were consumed by the growing pressing of memories...the force of finality...the pain of leaving...the anxiety of what  next...the thumping in my ears of loss ...the panic of right choices...the nausea of  doubt...the wounds of words.

My eyes could not recall seeing. My mind, my neck, my jaw, my throat, and my arms paralyzed by fatigue.  I barely comprehended the steps that beckoned me to stop. Unguarded, I could not respond to this moment, to this fan who suddenly thrust a rhythm into my ears to restart my soul.

She searched for hope in my awakening eyes that now lifted to meet hers, and she wondered if she should dare one last act before her retreat.   She clasped my wrist, cupped in them watering words for my soul, and whispered, "Leave It All Behind." What she offered rose to a crescendo in this song. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKioQPEW4do

With that chorus repeating in my head, I opened the crumpled paper pressed into my fist. In her hand-penned words she shared, "You spoke these words to the crowd one day, and I just wanted to give them back to you today to let you know you will be okay."  As if searching desperately for an answer, I read the simple truths over and over as I walked, pressing them into my brain. I remembered those words; I had said those words; I had read those words; I had bled those words.

               THE MAN IN THE ARENA                          
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Excerpt from the speech "Citizenship In A Republic" delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910    http://www.theodore-roosevelt.com/trsorbonnespeech.html






Comments

Anonymous said…
I remember getting you Brene Brown's book, DARING GREATLY. Has she been an inspiration? It would seem so. I remember listening to her with you, Mom & Dad in the sunroom. When she finished her talk, I remember thinking how wonderful it was to all share her together - and how she really was healing to listen to. And then Dad says, "Does it have to be that complicated?" I thought we'd all either laugh our heads off or send him to the gallows for ruining the moment. But I still laugh thinking about that moment. But I also remember thinking to myself, I would have life not other way. Life does not have to be complicated, but life will always be complex when we live it daring greatly. Congrats Sissy. Remember Ma and her Carole King album? This one's for you, my lovely sister: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHV3I5Q2MX0
August 23, 2013 at 11:38 PM
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