Soul Sunday

I slept so well last night. I always do, when it is the six members of my immediate family, safe under one roof. My eldest son made it back for a visit for the first time since Christmas. We had previous visits planned, but those got delayed, of course, due to the coronavirus. Right now, we are all ecstatic. No one showed his excitement and joy for our son’s return more, than did our Labrador retriever, Ralphie. Ralphie “hugged” our son several times, covered him with slobbery kisses, brought him every toy that he owns, and Ralphie’s tail was going on “high speed” for what seemed like hours, well into the night. Ralphie perfectly portrayed, in physical motion, what all the rest of us were feeling in our hearts. I will never wonder why we love dogs.

New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Typically I share I poem which I have written or I share a poem which someone else has written that has touched me. Since, I am eager to get back to the breakfast table, in order to continue to catch up with my son, I am going to share my favorite poem by Rudyard Kipling. It seems like an apropos choice for today. Friends, please add your poetry to the Comments section. The world always needs poetry, especially these days.

“If” by Rudyard Kipling

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 one 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!