Uh Oh...

It struck me today.  I am in no way ready mentally, physically, or spiritually to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.  The state I am in now, I will never make it. I am not exaggerating. As for the physical, it's too late; I'll simply have to trust that my general good health and some Diomox will get me to the top.  As for the mental and spiritual, it's crunch time, and lucky for me I work well under pressure; you have to when you're a serial procrastinator.  So my mental processing and preparation begins today, and it begins with this poem, which I will carry in my day pack as I climb.  I know this poem is not about climbing Kilimanjaro, but it very well could be...especially for me.

The Ladder of St. Augustine

 

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,

      That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

      Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events,

      That with the hour begin and end,

Our pleasures and our discontents,

      Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,

      That makes another's virtues less;

The revel of the ruddy wine,

      And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;

      The strife for triumph more than truth;

The hardening of the heart, that brings

      Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,

      That have their root in thoughts of ill;

Whatever hinders or impedes

      The action of the nobler will; —

All these must first be trampled down

      Beneath our feet, if we would gain

In the bright fields of fair renown

      The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;

      But we have feet to scale and climb

By slow degrees, by more and more,

      The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

      That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen, and better known,

      Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear

      Their solid bastions to the skies,

Are crossed by pathways, that appear

      As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept

      Were not attained by sudden flight,

But they, while their companions slept,

      Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore

      With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,

We may discern — unseen before —

      A path to higher destinies,

Nor doom the irrevocable Past

      As wholly wasted, wholly vain,

If, rising on its wrecks, at last

      To something nobler we attain.

                                ~By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow