There’s a little poem I seem to keep coming back to every now and then by Robert Frost that I can’t seem to shake.
The poem is “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and I recently came upon it again while reading a book of poetry to my kids (a really great book called, Keep a Pocket in Your Poem by J. Patrick Lewis).
The entire poem is beautiful, but the final stanza is quickly becoming a life-slogan for me:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
There’s an immediate scene of images that runs through my mind as I read this gem.
I see a path running through a thick lot of woods, similar to the ones I grew up in. Along this path there is no view of a dwelling, but lanterns stand along it in lengthy stretches.
I see the dirt on the path and the snow that meets it, as they bleed together into one black-and-brown mess, and I see a horse paused on it as its rider breathes for a moment, possibly has a smoke, or a sip of something to keep him warm in the cold winter night of New England winter.
I see all this and I see the man looking at his map, one that shows him a nearby village, one he’d like to stop at, one he’s compelled and seduced to rest at, to sleep at.
He feels it. But it’s not rest that is attracting him; indeed, he feels oddly energized despite his physical exhaustion. The horse has been fed, they’re both hydrated, and something deep within drives them both to move on.
Still, this traveler feels a compelling push from an ego voice, one that tries to seductively fuel his mind with doubt, luring him to the siren song of stopping what he’s doing.
Just this one stop, that’s all you need, then you can progress along the way, this voice says. Trust me, you’ll feel better and you deserve the rest, it’s actually critical for you to stop now.
But the traveler knows better.
He knows what happens when he stops. The drive to continue will be stifled with the weight of whether-I-shoulds, and it-doesn’t-matters. This is the weight of self-doubt, which is the language of the ego, and it sinks its teeth in deep when the pause lasts too long.
I see myself in this traveler, and I’ve thought recently about the promises I’ve kept to myself, to my higher self (i.e., my soul). I’ve thought about whether I’ve paused or stopped, and if I’ve stopped, why (and as of late, more often than not I’ve stopped).
The answer, of course, is always rooted in fear. Fear is the ego’s driving force, it is what it uses to convince you of stopping, of remaining as-is, of not trying what you feel you must do. Another name for this lovely little force, as Stephen Pressfield calls it in The War of Art, is Resistance (capital R here).
And fear is one deceitful bastard. Worst yet, it is convincing.
No doubt that traveler in the woods was also compelled by fear. But his journey was more important; something else drove him forward. And that was the promise – or, rather, promises – he kept and that he knew he would not break.
Personally, I’m in the midst of re-framing a lot in terms of how I approach my own self-promises and goals. I’ve been motivated recently by a number of insights that have fueled this drive from new angle that goes beyond just achieving goals. Goals are indeed important, but they are a form of measurement, and I feel it’s easy to get caught up in the allure of reaching the finish line of accomplishing a goal rather than the process and intent involved.
Back on the path, the rest is over, and as the traveler in Frost’s poem, “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
Movement.
Photo via ErikTanghe / Pixabay
