“ We mount to heaven mostly on the ruins of our cherished schemes, finding our failures were successes. ”
— Amos Bronson Alcott
Let's just think about that. (I found the quote on the opening page of Forbes.com.) I am not even sure what that means. We achieve heaven (for purposes of argument here) by continuing to strive and once we are dead, we find out that we did better than we thought we had?
Bronson Alcott was kind of a famous failure, I always thought. Of course, not for want of trying. And his daughter left us with some good writing.
Another day of struggle here in Park Slope. I am yet to be convinced that job hunting on the internet is any kind of improvement over anything. 'Tis quite frustrating and disheartening. And yet one must continue to figure it all out, as, from what I have been told, and that was at a job/career fair, the internet is where it all starts on the job front.
And, the mood can swing, and not in a great way, on a cool January day. At least the sun is shining. Figuring out how to put one foot in front of the other, how to move along, what step to take can be disheartening? confusing? overwhelming? insurmountable? Gotta get that demon negativity back in the cage. The persepctive here is not bright, but, once again, I haven't been outside today.
So, while the sun is still shining, and the temperature is still above/at 40 degrees, I will perambulate for a moment.
Much later and pre-yoga goodnight.
I slogged on. I didn't really take a proper walk until a little while ago. I came back from moving my car, made and ate too much pasta, and cleaned my silver jewelry in anticipation of selling it. Not all of it. I have too much jewelry and I am not wearing it, so I am not horribly sad to move it along. Someone else can love it. And I can love the cash.
Keeping my spirits up and my hope open today was a challenge, but again, I am not going to bed too frightened or miserable.
I have yet to complete parsing out the B. Alcott quote. Somehow it put me in mind of Shakespeare's Sonnet 119
What potions have I drunk of siren tears,
Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors have my committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have my eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this maddening fever!
O benefit of ill, now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruined love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater,
So I return rebuked to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.