Poetic Rowing

So… You wanna to row? Don’t wish for calm waters— wish for current, the kind that hones its blades.

Inhale. Be free.

Now. Pull. Not perfect. The good strokes never are.

Forget the glide. Let go. Rowing is mastery— and it takes a life to learn how to suffer beautifully.

Oh, the catch that drives a nail up your spine. The drive that burns your legs to coal. The recovery that tastes of vinegar and doubt.

Let each stroke be a surrender to discipline.

And when you grow old— a rebellion against decay.

Find what makes you heave. What makes your lungs beg. What makes your hands remember every blister like a confession.

Because ease is a liar. Comfort is the Reaper with soft hands

Discomfort is the compass. Pain is the north star. It never lies.

Row until the oar fuses to your bones. Until the boat’s rhythm erases your name. Until the river’s voice— cold and godless— whispers only one word:

—MAS!

And when you think you’ve given it— when there’s nothing left but ash and ache—

Row past that.

That’s the lesson. That’s the life. Ugly. Earned. Yours.

—anonymous rower One of us