When I was growing up, my father took out a piece of paper and he translated a Sanskrit poem onto that piece of paper that I’ve never forgotten. And he took that piece of paper and he taped it to our refrigerator door so my brother and I could read the words from this poem every single morning before we went off to school. I’ve never forgotten what it said on that piece of paper. It said simply, “Spring has passed. The summer has gone and winter is here. And the song that I meant to sing remains unsung, for I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument.”
As I got older, I asked my dad. I said, “Dad, what was that poem all about?” And he looked at me and he said, “Son, that was a poem written by a man whose heart was filled with regret over a life half lived. He was always getting ready to sing the great song of his life. He was always getting ready to be a dreamer. He was always getting ready to play with the poetic possibilities that his life was meant to be, but he just got busy being busy. And so he missed out on the great song of his life.”
