The Flag, The Dedication, and Odysseus

The Flag

The image immediately to the right is the flag that Team Wilson’s own Betsy Ross crafted. Sewn by Carla Stanley, the customer service rep for the One World Play Project, the banner will be unfurled at the top of Mount Adams in a few days as Roger, Wilson and I claim the sulfurous mound of rock and ice on behalf of the One World Futbol Project.

The Dedication

But what’s the point of conquering a mountain, if you don’t dedicate the act to someone or other? Since we’re going to be out of touch for a few days, Roger, Wilson and I are going to dedicate our hike ahead of time two three groups;

First, to the adventurers who lost their lives in the great mountains of Nepal in two recent devastating earthquakes. Their quest to reach the roof of the world dwarfs anything Team Wilson can accomplish by reaching the summit of Mount Adams. I am in awe of individuals who endure the thin air they find at more than twice the elevation of Mount Adams, and they deserve to be remembered, along with the thousands of others who died in the earthquakes.

Secondly, the donors who have, at this writing, purchased 103 One World Futbols. Every ball you purchased will serve an estimated 30 youngsters. It will cast a long shadow, lasting indefinitely, when lesser soccer balls will end up in landfills. It is a great gift that you have made.

You donors probably have a lot in common, but the element that so impresses me is this: I didn’t ask any of you to make your gift. I made it a point of pride that I never asked for the sale. I told you we were hiking for a cause; I told you what the cause was. But Team Wilson didn’t ask for a penny from any of the more than 150 individuals who receive the blog or individuals we met along the way. Most of the donors were readers who purchased only one or two balls. So consider the ratio—an enormous portion of the readers became donors  who self-initiated. There is an important message here about the character of the American people whom I know and who have made these gifts. I think it is that we are naturally kind.

Finally, there are those who have complimented Team Wilson on our effort. Some have expressed the wish that they had the energy or the purpose or the opportunity, or whatever. It is to you, as well, that we dedicate our ascent as an encouragement to pit your mettle against your own challenges. As Tennyson wrote,

You and I are old. Old age hath yet its honor and its toil. Death closes all. But something ere the end, some work of noble note may yet be done…”

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson, became Britain’s poet laureate in 1850. He was a man who had his struggles and transcended them. He wrote what has become my favorite poem, and the lines that continue to encourage; perhaps they will encourage you. The lines are about the fabled Odysseus, who, having finally completed an almost endless journey home following the Trojan War, reflects on his life and asks himself, “what next?” And, noting that he still has some tread left, he comes up with his own answer. You’ll find it in the lines that follow. And maybe there's something there for you to discover about yourself, as well.

Ulysses

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Love,

Roger, Robert and

Wilson, the Unbreakable