It is said that around the time that Christopher Columbus set sail, the English pirate Drake was raking Spanish holdings up the west side of the Americas. As Columbus sailed into the unknown, his fearful crew was allegedly on the brink of mutiny—mutiny, rather than come to the edge of…whatever.
In this perilous atmosphere, Columbus made a stark entry each day in his logbook: “Sailed on.”
More often than not, were I to keep a logbook, my handwritten entries and days might appear as monotonous as Columbus’s—wake up, work, tend to kids, clean, run errands, cook, clean (again, still, and always), then sleep and repeat ad nauseam.
“Sailed on.”
When I allow myself an honest moment, I find myself wondering, “Is there nothing more to this life?” I’m convinced that monotony must be the root cause of so many mid-life crises; individuals get stuck in the droning rhythm of days, realize that life could realistically be half over, and then impulsively attempt to break free from their daily restraints to explore beyond the boundaries of their boredom.
Like Colombus, we spend our days looking to the horizon for the arrival of the next significant landmark—marriage, a baby, promotion, vacation, retirement, etc…yet, in constantly anticipating the next great thing, we entirely abandon the journey. Constantly straining toward the world’s edge, we overlook the vast and endless oceans underfoot.
The thing is, we can’t foresee what’s on the horizon. We don’t know if it will come or when it—or we—will ever arrive. If we survive long enough to get there, wherever there is, we don’t know whether we’ll encounter treasure or tragedy. Very quickly, we may find ourselves desperately longing for the boredom and monotony of yesterday.
I’ve been told that the key is to live with gratitude, to find value and joy in the day-to-day simplicities of life. But as I struggle (and fail) to embody these traits, it also seems necessary to relax, settle down, lean into, and simply embrace the restless mundaneness of sailing.
Just as it’s nearly impossible to perceive any forward motion while traversing a seemingly infinite, landmarkless sea, so too, are we incapable of recognizing our own inner growth or progress in life. Yet, if we can learn to—not only tolerate—but trust the process, the journey, and our Captain, at some point, we will look back and realize just how far we’ve come. Perhaps, we will even find the faith and courage to recognize that every occurrence was for our own good, growth, and healing—the sun, the seasickness, the horrific storms, and the neverending stream of days upon days.
Closing up another long day, I finish my evening chores and prepare myself for whatever the next day might hold; I’m sure the range will be vast. Falling into bed, slightly grateful but mostly exhausted, I jot another mental entry into my log book, “Sailed on.”
