I am great tilter of windmills.
They litter the landscape of my life, looming sentinels scattered hither and yon. Each of them bears a particular memory: here was the romance I charged that had not a change of succeeding, there is the business idea that was improbable, over there was the great crusade that I intended to undertake. Each one of them a monument to some portion of my life where I spent time and energy chasing the unachievable, dangerous monsters that turned into the commonplace of life.
But of late I have been wondering: Am I really a tilter of windmills?
The activities I have been undertaking of late I have been accomplishing. Yes, perhaps not to the extent of others - my Highland Athletics, of course, will probably never be world class - but that is not really the point. The point is that it was not a pointless charge into an imaginary foe, something that simply could not be defeated because it was not there. Instead, progress was really made. The lance went into something and the foe fell.
I find this strangely remarkable and encouraging. Remarkable because such things are unexpected me. Encouraging because it means that if the thing can be done once, or twice or even thrice, it can be done again. And again.
As I wheel around on my Charger (who I am sure never anticipated actually having to work this hard) I see windmills farther out urging me onward. I also turn behind me to see those windmills behind from long ago which beckon me on as well with the promise that this time, it will be different.
And so, pennons flying in the breeze, I head off. For once I advance not with the spirit of reluctance of failure but with anticipation. The windmills - or have they truly now become giants? - loom in the distance.
And this time, they find me eager and ready.