on one's own helplessness and John Milton

I don't normally have weighty matter on my mind, mostly because I have in my mind a long list of stuff to get done, and I am always slower than I think I should be, so my concentration is always upon "The List". Living like this lends itself to a nearly self-absorbed, shallow life, but that's OK, because mostly I'm a self-absorbed, shallow guy, and I don't feel much missing. In other words, before I go too much further with this, I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression that I just sit around and contemplate 17Th century British poets all the time.

However, I recently came down with the nasty, nasty "crud" that the rest of my family got and nearly made me extinct. That's no big deal, I do some of my best work when I feel the worst, I always figured I'd a lot rather be doing something when I felt lousy than sitting around feeling sorry for myself and thinking about nothing but how bad I feel. But add to that a nearly crippling back injury incurred last Monday, and it pretty much wiped my "List" clean. Wednesday, I worked through the pain and cut firewood when I came home, then woke up around midnight new years eve (real party animal, I know) with such excruciating pain that I made my first new years resolution in years; that I would really take it easy Thursday. So with as much self-control as I could muster, I did nothing all day. It isn't as easy as it sounds.

But I had nice time anyway, and read something by John Milton that really struck me. If you didn't know, he was probably most famous for his book "Paradise Lost", which he dictated in iambic pentameter to one daughter or another after he lost all sight. However, this poem is about the loss of that sight and his feelings of helplessness (which I happen to relate to lately). It is called "When I consider How My Light Is Spent"

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

If any of you are like me, this will go straight over your head unless you happen to be laid up for a day or two, and don't like watching infomercials. But if you have several minutes, read it again.