Against Almost
I am almosting it…His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet nigh walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? —James Joyce in Ulysses
You’re the proud possessor of many gifts, and it’s your sacred duty to put them to good use. —Eric Liddell’s father in Chariots of Fire
Above: So close is synonymous with so far.
Almost is to fulfillment what a stroke is to good health: severely debilitating, if not entirely fatal.
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Like a blood clot, almost sits—embedded and harmless—for weeks, months, sometimes years; the accumulation of things not done and waste left behind.
“I almost forgave him.”
“I almost wrote my book.”
“I almost made it.”
“I almost got the girl.”
“I almost took the leap.”
“I almost got better.”
“I almost said something.”
Clots and almosts accumulate over time, lumping together in different shapes and sizes until one grows large enough to cause a problem. Or smother a life.
Out of nowhere, one strikes:
Arresting blood flow.
Cutting off oxygen.
Blackening life.
Enough.
Small ball never wins the game.
Annihilate almost, embrace the present, and give birth to the possibility pregnant in every last moment.
Nothing so poisons the wellspring of humanity than potential willfully unrealized.
Let your dreams flow like your blood does—freely, swiftly, unreservedy
Make like Frost’s weary traveler and, on your deathbed, have the good fortune to utter:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.