The Station
By Robert J. Hastings

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. 
We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. 
We are traveling by train.  Out the windows we drink in 
the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children 
waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, 
of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row 
of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains 
and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.

But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. 
Bands will be playing and flags waving.  Once we get there, 
our dreams will come true, and the pieces of our lives will 
fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace 
the aisles-waiting, waiting, and waiting, for the station.

"When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry.
"When I'm 18."
"When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes-Benz!"
"When I put the last kid through college."
"When I have paid off the mortgage!"
"When I get a promotion."
"When I reach the age of retirement, 
I shall live happily ever after!"

Sooner or later, we must realize there is  no station,
 no one place to arrive at once and for all. 
The true joy of life is the trip. 
The station is only a dream. 
It constantly outdistances us.

It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad.
It is the regrets over yesterday and fear of tomorrow.
Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.

So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. 
Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, 
go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more
 sunsets, laugh more, and cry less.  Life must be lived 
as we go along.  The station will come soon enough.

Thanks Nancy for sharing this story
Art by Rosemary Millette