In Flanders Fields Quotes

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn saw sunset glow Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields Take up our quarrel with the foe; To you, from falling hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street

There were other war veterans in the neighborhood, visible thanks to their limps or missing limbs. All those unclaimed arms and legs lost in the fields of Flanders - Ursula imagined them pushing roots down into the mud and shoots up to the sky and growing once again into men. An army of men marching back for revenge.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep.

An artist is the magician put among men to gratify--capriciously--their urge for immortality. The temples are built and brought down around him, continuously and contiguously, from Troy to the fields of Flanders. If there is any meaning in any of it, it is in what survives as art, yes even in the celebration of tyrants, yes even in the celebration of nonentities. What now of the Trojan War if it had been passed over by the artist's touch? Dust. A forgotten expedition prompted by Greek merchants looking for new markets. A minor redistribution of broken pots. But it is we who stand enriched, by a tale of heroes, of a golden apple, a wooden horse, a face that launched a thousand ships--and above all, of Ulysses, the wanderer, the most human, the most complete of all heroes--husband, father, son, lover, farmer, soldier, pacifist, politician, inventor and adventurer...

There is a cost to staying on one path, especially if it doesn’t feel like the one you should be on. But there is also a cost to walking away and venturing into the unknown. The real question that was embedded in each one of my concerns was, What price am I willing to pay?

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below We are the Dead Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields Take up our quarrel with the foe To you from failing hands we throw The torch be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep/though poppies grow In Flanders Fields

lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before

That day of battle in the dusty heat We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, And we the harvest of their garnering.

Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep, Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" How should they know the vigils that I keep, The tears I shed?

To live an intentional life, then, you don’t need to have your whole life figured out. Instead, all you have to do is have some purpose or reason behind every decision you make.

No two paths are the same, just as no two people are the same.

All those unclaimed arms and legs lost in the fields of Flanders – Ursula imagined them pushing roots down into the mud and shoots up to the sky and growing once again into men. An army of men marching back for revenge.

It can be hard to return to a place that wants you to stay the same. People will always make comments when you decide to live differently, and even more comments when you get lost or you fail at trying to live differently.

him." "Oh, I wish we had the old days back again," exclaimed Jem. "I'd love to be a soldier—a great, triumphant general. I'd give EVERYTHING to see a big battle." Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world; but that was as yet far in the future; and the mother, whose first-born son he was, was wont to look on her boys and thank God that the "brave days of old," which Jem longed for, were gone for ever, and that never would it be necessary for the sons of Canada to ride forth to battle "for the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods." The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror's pageant faded out. Twilight crept over the valley and the little group grew silent. Walter had been reading again that day in his beloved book of myths and he remembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper coming down the valley on an evening just like this. He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because something apart from him seemed to be speaking through his lips. "The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes—he pipes—and we must follow—Jem and Carl and Jerry and I—round and round the world. Listen— listen—can't you hear his wild music?" The girls shivered. "You know you're only pretending," protested Mary Vance, "and I wish you wouldn't. You make it too real. I hate that old Piper of yours." But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a little hillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow and his fearless eyes. There were thousands like him all over the land of the maple. "Let the Piper come and welcome," he cried, waving

The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. Slowly

Berlin. November 18, 1917. Sunday. I think Grosz has something demonic in him. This new Berlin art in general, Grosz, Becher, Benn, Wieland Herzfelde, is most curious. Big city art, with a tense density of impressions that appears simultaneous, brutally realistic, and at the same time fairy-tale-like, just like the big city itself, illuminating things harshly and distortedly as with searchlights and then disappearing in the glow. A highly nervous, cerebral, illusionist art, and in this respect reminiscent of the music hall and also of film, or at least of a possible, still unrealized film. An art of flashing lights with a perfume of sin and perversity like every nocturnal street in the big city. The precursors are E.T.A. Hoffmann, Breughel, Mallarmé, Seurat, Lautrec, the futurists: but in the density and organization of the overwhelming abundance of sensation, the brutal reality, the Berliners seem new to me. Perhaps one could also include Stravinsky here (Petrushka). Piled-up ornamentation each of which expresses a trivial reality but which, in their sum and through their relations to each other, has a thoroughly un-trivial impact. All round the world war rages and in the center is this nervous city in which so much presses and shoves, so many people and streets and lights and colors and interests: politics and music hall, business and yet also art, field gray, privy counselors, chansonettes, and right and left, and up and down, somewhere, very far away, the trenches, regiments storming over to attack, the dying, submarines, zeppelins, airplane squadrons, columns marching on muddy streets, Hindenburg and Ludendorff, victories; Riga, Constantinople, the Isonzo, Flanders, the Russian Revolution, America, the Anzacs and the poilus, the pacifists and the wild newspaper people. And all ending up in the half-darkened Friedrichstrasse, filled with people at night, unconquerable, never to be reached by Cossacks, Gurkhas, Chasseurs d'Afrique, Bersaglieris, and cowboys, still not yet dishonored, despite the prostitutes who pass by. If a revolution were to break out here, a powerful upheaval in this chaos, barricades on the Friedrichstrasse, or the collapse of the distant parapets, what a spark, how the mighty, inextricably complicated organism would crack, how like the Last Judgment! And yet we have experienced, have caused precisely this to happen in Liège, Brussels, Warsaw, Bucharest, even almost in Paris. That's the world war, all right.

Almost any student of history is familiar with the truth summed up in the opening line of L. P. Hartley’s novel The Go-Between: ‘The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.’ It requires a level of naivety to imagine that a piece from a magazine published in 1916 would meet the precise social criteria of 2018. In 1916 women in Britain and America did not have the right to vote, you could still be sentenced to hard labour in prison for being gay, and an entire generation of young men were being gassed, blown-up, shot at and shelled in the fields of Flanders and France. Things were different then.

And then came a damp, cold night in Flanders, through which we marched in silence, and when the day began to emerge from the mists, suddenly an iron greeting came whizzing at us over our heads, and with a sharp report sent the little pellets flying between our ranks, ripping up the wet ground; but even before the little cloud had passed, from two hundred throats the first hurrah rose to meet the first messenger of death. Then a crackling and a roaring, a singing and a howling began, and with feverish eyes each one of us was drawn forward, faster and faster, until suddenly past turnip fields and hedges the fight began, the fight of man against man. And from the distance the strains of a song reached our ears, coming closer and closer, leaping from company to company, and just as Death plunged a busy hand into our ranks, the song reached us too and we passed it along: Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles, über Alles in der Welt!

By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and of the holy canons, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and of all the celestial virtues, angels, archangels, thrones, dominions, powers, cherubins and seraphins, and of all the holy patriarchs, prophets, and of all the apostles and evangelists, and of the holy innocents, who in the sight of the Holy Lamb, are found worthy to sing the new song of the holy martyrs and holy confessors, and of the holy virgins, and of all the saints together, with the holy and elect of God, may he be damn'd. We excommunicate, and anathematize him, and from the thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty we sequester him, that he may be tormented, disposed, and delivered over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God, Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways. And as fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out for evermore, unless it shall repent him' and make satisfaction. Amen. May the Father who created man, curse him. May the Son who suffered for us curse him. May the Holy Ghost, who was given to us in baptism, curse him May the holy cross which Christ, for our salvation triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him. May the holy and eternal Virgin Mary, mother of God, curse him. May St. Michael, the advocate of holy souls, curse him. May all the angels and archangels, principalities and powers, and all the heavenly armies, curse him. [Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, cried my uncle Toby,---but nothing to this.---For my own part I could not have a heart to curse my dog so.] May St. John the Pre-cursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all other Christ's apostles, together curse him. And may the rest of his disciples and four evangelists, who by their preaching converted the universal world, and may the holy and wonderful company of martyrs and confessors who by their holy works are found pleasing to God Almighty, curse him. May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honor of Christ have despised the things of the world, damn him May all the saints, who from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages are found to be beloved of God, damn him May the heavens and earth, and all the holy things remaining therein, damn him. May he be damn'd wherever he be---whether in the house or the stables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or in the path, or in the wood, or in the water, or in the church. May he be cursed in living, in dying. May he be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, in slumbering, in walking, in standing, in sitting, in lying, in working, in resting, in pissing, in shitting, and in blood-letting! May he be cursed in all the faculties of his body! May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly! May he be cursed in the hair of his head! May he be cursed in his brains, and in his vertex, in his temples, in his forehead, in his ears, in his eye-brows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his fore-teeth and grinders, in his lips, in his throat, in his shoulders, in his wrists, in his arms, in his hands, in his fingers! May he be damn'd in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart and purtenance, down to the very stomach! May he be cursed in his reins, and in his groin, in his thighs, in his genitals, and in his hips, and in his knees, his legs, and feet, and toe-nails! May he be cursed in all the joints and articulations of the members, from the top of his head to the sole of his foot! May there be no soundness in him! May the son of the living God, with all the glory of his Majesty and may heaven, with all the powers which move therein, rise up against him, curse and damn him, unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen. I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness!

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

Copying Juvven’s gaze over the treetops at the edge of the shooting range, he saw the fields of Flanders before his inner eye. “Yes, the wide horizon…” The memory made the corners of his mouth curl slightly. “…and in the night, you lie there, snuggled into the hay, and there is this huge sky above you.” He stared into the past, ignoring Juvven swivel his head to watch him and continued, “Although you are in the middle of war, death, and destruction, you can positively feel the velvet of the dark vault above you. And in it, like falling coins or lights carried by other beings, twinkle the stars, beckoning you to lift your hand and touch them, to feel happy and safe with them.” He broke off and turned to Juvven, without seeing him, still lost in his memories. “They gave a sense of security and…hope, I think. As if the Earth and the sky cradled me, telling me I was protected by them.

adventure.

Before the war, everyone had their rung on the ladder, and they didn't look much below or above it. But now? Low and high died side by side in Flanders Fields, and looked much the same facedown in the mud.

In the Canadiens’ dressing room, on a wall above the players’ lockers, is a line from John McCrae’s poem, “In Flanders Fields.” It reads: To you from failing hands we throw the torch, be yours to hold it high.

Most of the boys Lanny had played with here, slightly older than himself, had died in Flanders. The sons they had left behind had died in the recent war; but the breed went on—generation after generation born, raised, educated at great expense and trouble, only to be slaughtered on some foreign field.

When on October 5, 1917, the Passchendaele offensive was sinking into the mire, and the Cabinet sought to bring it to a conclusion, Robertson was compelled to rest himself upon ‘the unsatisfactory state of the French armies and of the general political situation in France, which was still far from reassuring’;10 and again: ‘The original object of the campaign—the clearance of the Belgian coast—was seen to be doubtful of attainment long before the operations terminated, owing to the bad weather experienced and to the delay in starting caused by the change of plan earlier in the year. But, as already explained, there were strong reasons why activity had to be maintained. We must give the French armies time to recover their strength and morale, make every effort to keep Russia in the field in some form or other, and try to draw enemy troops to Flanders which might otherwise be sent against Italy, especially after her defeat at Caporetto. All these purposes of distraction were achieved, and in addition heavy losses were inflicted upon the German armies.’11 For these ‘purposes of distraction’ the killing, maiming or capture of over 400,000 British soldiers was apparently considered a reasonable price to pay. It appears however that although Robertson drove the Cabinet remorselessly forward, he had convinced himself that none of the British attacks for which he bore responsibility in 1915 and in 1916 had had any chance of decisive success. ‘With respect to the alleged error of always attacking where the enemy was strongest,’ he writes,12 ‘I could not refrain from saying that the greatest of all errors was that of not providing before the war an army adequate to enforce the policy adopted…. Until this year we have not had the means to attack with the hope of getting a decision,13 and therefore we have had no choice in the point of attack.’ He used these words on his own avowal on June 21, 1917; so that the highest expert authority responsible for procuring the support of the Cabinet to two years of offensive operations had already convinced himself that up till 1917 the British Army ‘had not the means to attack with the hope of getting a decision.’ Undeterred however by this slowly-gained revelation, he proceeded to drive the unfortunate Ministers to authorize the prolongation into the depths of winter of the Passchendaele offensive.

In Flanders Fields           In Flanders fields the poppies blow           Between the crosses, row on row,            That mark our place; and in the sky            The larks, still bravely singing, fly           Scarce heard amid the guns below.           We are the Dead.  Short days ago           We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,            Loved and were loved, and now we lie,                       In Flanders fields.           Take up our quarrel with the foe:           To you from failing hands we throw            The torch; be yours to hold it high.            If ye break faith with us who die           We shall not sleep, though poppies grow                       In Flanders fields. The

Sa Maisan *   * Ang tula ay malayang pagsalin ni Jun Cabochan sa tulang “In Flanders Fields” na sinulat ni Lieut.-Col. John McCrae. �Namatay siya sa digmaan noong January 28, 1918.    Sa maisan umiihip ang damo sa pagitan ng mga lapida, mga tanda ng aming dugo Sa itaas, lumilipad ang mga ibon, patuloy sa pag-awit Halos di madinig sa gitna ng putukan   Kami ang mga patay Kailan lamang ay buhay kami Dama ang bukang-liwayway, Tanaw ang tanglaw ng lumulubog na araw Nagmamahal at minamahal Ngayon, nakaratay kami sa maisan   Ipagpatuloy ang aming laban para sa kapayapaan Mula sa mga namamanhid na kamay ipapasa sa iyo ang sulo Sa iyo na ito para iwagayway Kapag sumira ka sa ating sumpaan Di kami matatahimik, kahit pa Kumakalat ang damo sa maisan

In 1915 the Canadian soldier and poet Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote the poem 'In Flanders Fields' about the war and the poppies he'd seen growing on the battlefields. Poppies were the first flowers to grow on the battlefields after the fighting had ended. Their red colour is a symbol of the blood shed and their growth is a sign of new life.

MY LOVER died a century ago, Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath, Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know The peace of death. Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep, Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" How should they know the vigils that I keep, The tears I shed? Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath, Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die, Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death, More blest than I. 'Twas just last year -- - I heard two lovers pass So near, I caught the tender words he said: To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass ; Above his head. That night full envious of his life was I, That youth and love should stand at his behest; To-night, I envy him, that he should lie At utter rest.

Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh Against the joys that throng thy coming day.

Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a death of grace

I LEFT, to earth, a little maiden fair, With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light; I prayed that God might have her in His care And sight. Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song; (Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name) The path she showed was but the path of wrong And shame. "Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come -- - "Her future is with Me, as was her past; It shall be My good will to bring her home At last.

I LEFT, to earth, a little maiden fair, With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light; I prayed that God might have her in His care And sight. Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song; (Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name) The path she showed was but the path of wrong And shame. "Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come -- - "Her future is with Me, as was her past; It shall be My good will to bring her home At last.

Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a death of grace

MY LOVER died a century ago, Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath, Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know The peace of death. Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep, Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!" How should they know the vigils that I keep, The tears I shed? Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath, Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die, Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death, More blest than I. 'Twas just last year -- - I heard two lovers pass So near, I caught the tender words he said: To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass ; Above his head. That night full envious of his life was I, That youth and love should stand at his behest; To-night, I envy him, that he should lie At utter rest.

What combination of events could ever bring back again to France and Flanders the formidable Canadians of the Vimy Ridge; the glorious Australians of Villers-Bretonneux; the dauntless New Zealanders of the crater-fields of Passchendaele; the steadfast Indian Corps which in the cruel winter of

The First World War, which at that moment was not the first, since they were unaware of the possibility of a second, but the Great War. That’s what they called it: the Great War. They also called it, with populist optimism, the War to End All Wars. The name of that conflict has changed over the years, as perhaps the nature of the explanation we’ve invented to talk about it has changed. Our capacity to name things is limited, and those limits are that much more sensitive or cruel if the things we’re trying to name have disappeared forever. That’s what the past is: a tale, a tale constructed over another tale, an artifice of verbs and nouns where we might be able to capture human pain, their fear of death and eagerness to live, their homesickmness while battling in the trenches, the worry for the soldier who has gone to the fields of Flanders and who might already be dead when we remember him.

Defoe’s Moll Flanders, Fielding’s Tom Jones and Johnson’s moralizing fable, Rasselas.

If you are of the fortunate people who gets to decide how you want to live your life, I believe it is only fair that you share that privilege in some way.

If you are one of the fortunate people who gets to decide how you want to live your life, I believe it is only fair that you share that privilege in some way.

Where their advice was misguided was in thinking that the safe path was the right path.

As someone who had grown up with structure and assumed I had to plan my life and goals down to every detail, I found it exhilarating to be so spontaneous. To wake up and let things go with the flow.

In sticking with these routines and stories, we don’t give ourselves the time and space to hit Pause, look at our lives objectively, and ask ourselves if it’s what we really want.

It’s like wearing a dress that’s a little bit too tight, as Nicole described it to me. It’s not that you can’t make it work. And it’s not necessarily that most people would even notice. But you would feel so much better if you just changed your clothes—or, in her case, if she just tried removing alcohol from her life.

Most people aren’t trying to judge or attack your choices. It’s really not about you at all. The truth is that most people can see only as far for you as they see for themselves.

I have come to realize that “Hike your own hike” means there is really no one right way to do any of this. It means listen to your body and do what is right for you, every single day. It is an act of self-awareness and confidence. It is also an act of self-love.

But I’m happy to keep showing up and doing that work, because this way of life keeps leading me in a direction that is so much more fulfilling than where my original path was taking me.

To do it, you have to embrace the fact that it will be an adventure, filled with risks and uncertainty, but also rewards and lessons that could potentially change your life in ways you have never imagined.

Instead of jumping ship, you can simply turn a few degrees in another direction and take a single step. Then take another step, and another step, and another—and then look up and around to see if you like where you’re heading.

This is one of my biggest problems with the self-help space in general: the idea that is sold to us is that if one person can do something, anyone can do that same thing. How many times have you read those exact words in a book or Instagram post? “If I can do it, you can do it too!” Instead, what we should be saying is that if one person can change their life, it’s just proof that it’s possible

This is one of my biggest problems with the self-help space in general: the idea that is sold to us is that if one person can do something, anyone can do that same thing. How many times have you read those exact words in a book or Instagram post? “If I can do it, you can do it too!” Instead, what we should be saying is that if one person can change their life, it’s just proof that it’s possible for a person to change their life. That’s it!

You can’t know what’s going to happen or how you’re going to feel about it until you start going down the new path. Instead, you have to work past the fear of doing it “wrong” or “failing” and simply try.

doing it “wrong” or “failing” and simply try. Remember that to opt out is to step off the path you’re on and start doing what feels right for you. To do it, you have to embrace the fact that it will be an adventure filled with risks and uncertainty, but also rewards and lessons that could potentially change your life in ways you have never imagined. If you look at it like an experiment, it becomes an opportunity to gain new experience and learn along the way.

When you decide to take a new path and are truly open to where it could lead you, I find there are lots of little moments of awe and wonder in the beginning. It feeds your confidence and makes you all the more excited to see what’s around the next bend. And if you don’t stop to enjoy these moments, who will?

But if we walk around just saying no to everything that doesn’t perfectly align with an idea we have about ourselves or our lives, it strips us of the opportunities to find people who might be on similar paths. Or the chance to lend a hand

But if we walk around just saying no to everything that doesn’t perfectly align with an idea we have about ourselves or our lives, it strips us of the opportunities to find people who might be on similar paths. Or the chance to lend a hand and help someone else.

Life was supposed to be a collection of steady employment and assets, wasn’t it? Of working hard, saving your money, buying a home, maybe getting married and having kids, and then retiring and traveling after that. There was a path to go down, and it was very clearly marked by my parents and many of the friends around me. Adventures weren’t on it, nor were they encouraged to be taken.

The word “trying” itself is so freeing. Like there’s no perfect path or goal. You can just try something new and see what happens!

Even if we don’t like admitting it, it’s hard to completely strip ourselves from wanting to feel the acceptance that comes from fitting in, or the validation from others that we are doing the right thing. But by slowing down and doing a little bit less, Brooke and Ben have been able to carve out a path that’s right for their family—and there’s nothing more meaningful than that.

Most of the time when we give advice, we think we are supporting the person who came to us with their problems. But the reality is that sometimes that support feels more like the crushing of one’s dreams. And it’s really not up to us to decide what anyone else’s dreams are, or to control how they live their lives.

So, who would you rather be? The person who tries to convince someone not to go after what they want, simply because you would be afraid to do what they are thinking about doing? Or the person who holds out their hand and helps people get wherever they want to go?

So please: take the time to appreciate what it feels like to be on your new path. Don’t just take the next step or try to rush to the summit. If you don’t stop to enjoy the views along the way, then your only memory of the adventure will be that you did what you intended to do. But you won’t remember any of the beautiful moments that made it so meaningful. And you will want to be able to draw on that stuff later—especially when things get harder, which I can guarantee they will.

People will always make comments when you decide to live a countercultural lifestyle.” They will have even more to say if you struggle with it.

Today, if I decide to change plans partway through an opt-out, it’s very intentional. I know it’s not a failure, and that I am not a failure. I’ve learned that it’s perfectly okay to try something new and figure out that it’s not the right choice for you. Or that it might feel right for a few months or even years, but that doesn’t mean it has to feel right forever.

You can wave goodbye and miss people, but it doesn’t need to be dramatic. You can simply trust that you were on the same road together for a reason, and be grateful for the time you spent together.

Rather than fear it, maybe we could try to remember that our time together was always going to be temporary. So loosen your grip. Adjust your straps. Release whatever is still holding you back from walking through this world as your full self. And remember that a successful relationship doesn’t have to be one that lasts forever. It can simply serve a purpose. I hope you can find some peace in the letting go. It is a practice of its own.

The entire column (called “The Ghost Ship That Didn’t Carry Us”), which is brilliant, could be summed up in her closing paragraph: “I’ll never know and neither will you of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.

And you can apply the idea to all areas of your life. Work. Health. Relationships. Money. Hobbies. We’re always moving the notch one step ahead and at a slight incline, thinking the only way forward is up. Next, next, next. More, more, more. Up, up, up. We are so focused on making linear progress that we lose sight of what’s in front of us and we are never really here.

summed up as “Be here.” I know that parts of your adventure in opting out will be a struggle. But my hope is that you eventually get to a place where you’re not thinking about it anymore. And then suddenly it hits you. And you realize you’re doing it—you’re living life on this new path. Don’t rush through this moment. It’s okay if it doesn’t come to you at the exact minute you might have “reached” the summit. If you don’t have a lot of practice living in the present, you probably won’t see it right away, and that’s okay.

Whenever this realization comes to you, don’t jump to the next goal or the next opt-out. And don’t worry if you can’t see what’s ahead. Nobody can. Just be here. Stand right where you are and feel the ground beneath your feet. Then ask yourself a few questions. How does it feel to be here right now? What does your life look like? Who have you met along the way? Who has helped you or impacted your life in a new way? Who or what have you lost? What have you given up to make this possible? What have you gained? Why has it been worth it?

I’m not here to say that opting out is the best way to live. I am saying that it is one way to live. One path to choose. But you can absolutely choose to stay on the one you’re on.

You will always leave someone or something behind when you decide to change paths in life.

For any or all of these reasons, we stick to what we know. We continue to go through the motions. We follow the clear paths and play it safe. But deep down, something doesn’t feel right. We don’t always know what it is at first, but it’s there. And we try to ignore it. Consciously or subconsciously, we try to distract our minds and numb our feelings.

What if you could go on an adventure in opting out? What if you could know that it will come with risks and uncertainty but also rewards and lessons that could change your life in ways you have never imagined? Does that sound a little less scary?