They call it the quiet sport—the pursuit of gentlemen, poets, priests and presidents—but don’t let them lie to you. It’s an obsession, an addiction, a drug. And, just like any other junkies, we can’t tell you why we keep going back for more, why we keep on searching for that which cannot be found while in our wake we leave friends, family, and jobs—the detritus that, willfully or not, we shed along the way…
…and, come to think of it, maybe that’s why it’s so quiet.
Here’s to what we leave behind.
[...] little post from our friend over at Flatswalker about our “quiet” [...]
great… totally hits it
Well said.
If I cared to drink anymore, I’d toast with you on that.
I have thought about the days I’ve spent on mountain streams, all by myself, where I probably have not said more than a dozen words all day. It feels very contemplative, although on those days, I don’t know that I’ve actually thought about anything but the fish, the river, the path. You really do leave everything else behind and it is just you and the task at hand.