At the train station every morning there is a gentleman with a dog. The man's eyes are partially closed in a way that suggests visual impairment. And the dog is leashed and behaves in a way that suggests the same: the dog is the man's eyes. How lucky are those of us who can see. But here's the thing: the guy is always smiling; he's cheerful. It's preachy, proverb-y to say so, but I try to remember: in life we always have a choice. Even when we think we don't, we do. Easier said than done in storm and disaster, but we do. The choice? Our attitude. Our response. The first and last of our freedoms. Viktor Frankl said it better. I'm grateful for the guy at the train.
Last week at Meg's basketball practice, on the track above the courts, I noticed another man. He was moving, as my Grandpa Byard would say, like a turtle in a windstorm. No faster than the sun across the sky on a long, lazy afternoon. He shakily gripped a railing in one hand and a walker in the other, shuffling, clearly fighting back from illness or injury. He wasn't a middle-ager, but not a centenarian either. He was decked in a shiny new running suit and, I suspect, a pair of kickass tennies. As a member of the Greatest Generation, I doubt he was thinking exactly this, but something like: I'm gonna get healthy and mobile again and I don't give a fuck if I look ancient, fragile, as everyone races by me on the track, kicking high, gliding, bouncing; my skin and bones were young once too; I'm here to do my thing and get walking again. His choice. His attitude. A good one. Maybe not so easy to muster.
Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.
— Viktor Frankl
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
— Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
— Dylan Thomas
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