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If—

If—
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

About the Poem

“If—” is perhaps the most famous poem by Rudyard Kipling, first published in 1910 in his collection Rewards and Fairies. Written as paternal advice to his son, the poem reads like a moral blueprint—an instruction manual for how to live with integrity, resilience, and balance.

Structurally, the poem is built on a series of conditional statements—“If you can…”—that accumulate into a final promise: a life fully realized. Kipling’s language is simple but powerful, relying on rhythm, repetition, and contrast. Each stanza presents a set of virtues, often framed through paradox: confidence balanced with humility, ambition tempered by restraint, and emotional strength paired with compassion.

At its core, the poem reflects a philosophy often described as the “golden mean”—a middle path between extremes. Kipling emphasizes stoicism and self-mastery, urging the reader to remain steady in the face of chaos, to endure loss without complaint, and to approach both triumph and disaster with equal composure.

While the final line—“you’ll be a Man, my son”—reflects the gendered language of its time, the virtues Kipling outlines transcend that limitation. They speak to a broader ideal of human character: one grounded in patience, courage, humility, and perseverance.

What has always made “If—“ endure is not just its advice, but its challenge.

This is not an easy poem. Kipling sets an almost impossibly high bar. To remain calm when blamed unfairly, to trust yourself while acknowledging doubt, to rebuild your life without bitterness after losing everything—these are not everyday accomplishments. They are lifelong pursuits.

And yet, there is something deeply compelling about that ideal.

The poem asks us to hold contradictions in tension: to dream, but not be ruled by dreams; to think, but not become lost in thought; to engage fully with the world, but not be consumed by it. In many ways, it’s a call to balance—to live fully without losing oneself.

For me, one of the most striking lines has always been the idea of treating “Triumph and Disaster… just the same.” In a world that constantly pushes us toward extremes—celebrating success as everything and fearing failure as final—Kipling reminds us that both are temporary. Neither defines us unless we allow it to.

There’s also something quietly powerful in the poem’s emphasis on endurance. Not flashy success, not brilliance, but the simple, stubborn act of holding on:

“Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”

That line feels especially relevant in moments when life is overwhelming—when the best we can do is keep going, even when we feel emptied out.

At the same time, it’s worth acknowledging that Kipling’s vision of strength is very much rooted in a particular historical ideal of masculinity—stoic, restrained, emotionally controlled. Today, we might read the poem with a more nuanced lens, recognizing that vulnerability, openness, and emotional expression are also forms of strength.

Even so, the heart of the poem remains meaningful. It’s not really about becoming “a Man” in a narrow sense—it’s about becoming whole. About striving, however imperfectly, toward a life of integrity and balance.

About the Author

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) was a British writer and poet, born in India during the height of the British Empire. He is best known for works such as The Jungle Book, Kim, and the poem “If—,” all of which reflect his fascination with empire, identity, and moral character.

Kipling became the first English-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, recognized for his storytelling and vivid prose. His work often blends adventure with moral instruction, and his poetry in particular has a didactic, almost instructional quality.

However, Kipling’s legacy is complex. His association with British imperialism has led to criticism, especially in modern readings of his work. Poems like “The White Man’s Burden” have sparked ongoing debate about colonial attitudes embedded in his writing.

“If—,” however, stands somewhat apart. Rather than focusing on empire, it turns inward—offering a personal code of conduct that continues to resonate with readers around the world. It remains one of the most quoted and beloved poems in the English language, not because it is easy, but because it dares to define what it means to live well.

Pic of the Day

Quick Note

This is going to be a short post today. My schedule is a bit shuffled this week. I’m working from home today instead of Friday since I need to be at the museum then. I’ll also be working a half day Thursday and another half day on Saturday to prepare for an early morning class next Monday. It’s much easier to set things up when the museum is closed—no worrying about securing objects while moving them around.

It’s probably for the best that today is a work-from-home day. I woke up with a headache, and I don’t think I could handle the bright lights of my office or the mix of perfumes and other scents that come with a full building. Still, there’s plenty to get done, so it’s going to be a busy one regardless.

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A Faith That Crosses Boundaries

“Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word, and my servant will be healed.”

—Matthew 8:8

One of the most striking stories in the Gospels is found in Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10—the story of the Roman centurion and the servant he loved.

A Roman officer.

An outsider.

A man of power in a system that oppressed the very people Jesus came to teach.

And yet… he is the one who shows extraordinary faith.

The centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his servant, who is suffering terribly. In Luke’s account, the language used suggests deep affection—this was not just any servant. The Greek word pais can mean “servant,” but it can also imply a beloved companion, even a young man with a close personal bond. Some scholars have suggested that the relationship may have been more intimate—possibly romantic. Others see it simply as a profound, devoted connection.

We may never know exactly what their relationship was, but we do know this: The centurion loved him deeply.

And he was willing to cross every social, cultural, and religious boundary to seek healing for him.

When Jesus offers to come and heal the servant, the centurion responds with words that still echo in Christian liturgy today. There is humility here—but not shame.

This is not the voice of someone who believes he is unloved. This is the voice of someone who understands authority, trust, and faith. He believes—completely—that Jesus does not even need to be physically present. A word is enough.

And Jesus responds with astonishment:

“Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith.”

Here is what stands out, especially for LGBTQ+ Christians:

• Jesus does not question the relationship.
  
• He does not ask for clarification.
  
• He does not require repentance.
  
• He does not set conditions.
  

He simply responds to faith, and He heals what love has brought before Him.

If the centurion’s bond with his servant was indeed romantic—or even just deeply unconventional—Jesus’ response is telling. The focus is not on judging the relationship, but on honoring the faith and love that compelled the centurion to act.

The centurion represents so many forms of “outsider”:

• A Gentile among Jews
• A soldier of an occupying force
• A man of power who approaches with humility
• Possibly a man whose love did not fit societal norms

And yet, he is held up as an example of faith.

Not tolerated. Not quietly accepted.Praised.

The words of the hymn “Faith Is the Victory” echo the spirit of this story:

Encamped along the hills of light,

Ye Christian soldiers, rise,

And press the battle ere the night

Shall veil the glowing skies;

Against the foe in vales below

Let all our strength be hurled;

Faith is the victory, we know,

That overcomes the world.

Faith is the victory!

Faith is the victory!

O glorious victory,

That overcomes the world.

For those of us who have ever wondered:

• Am I worthy?
• Does my love disqualify me?
• Will I be turned away?

The story of the centurion answers with quiet, powerful clarity:

Faith is not limited by who you are. Love is not erased by how others define it. And Christ meets us exactly where we stand.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Shorts

The weather’s warming up, which means shorts season is back—and when a guy in loose shorts sits down, one has to wonder… where do your eyes go first? Perfectly innocent, of course.

…face it—you know this is what you really want to do.

This may only make sense to Southerners—or any college football fan—but if I included an Auburn pic, I had to include one for Alabama too.

Pic of the Day

The Luxury of No Plans

I’m still in the middle of using up my vacation days, and today is one of those rare, wonderful days when I have absolutely nothing I have to do. There are certainly things I should do—and I probably will get around to a few of them—but nothing is pressing, nothing is urgent, and that makes all the difference.

Much to Isabella’s chagrin, I slept later than usual this morning. She does not approve of any deviation from her carefully curated schedule—especially when it involves her breakfast being delayed—but she has, for the moment, resigned herself to my laziness.

At this point, there’s not even a compelling reason to get dressed. The coffee is hot, the house is quiet, and the day is mine to ease into at whatever pace I choose. Honestly, those are the best kinds of mornings.

We’ve had two beautiful days of weather—nothing but sunshine. Wednesday was pleasantly mild, while yesterday turned a bit colder and windier. Today, though, looks like it’s shaping up to be just right: sunny with mild temperatures. It might be the perfect excuse to take a walk later and enjoy a bit of fresh air.

But for now? I think I’ll stay right here, sip my coffee, and enjoy the simple luxury of doing absolutely nothing for a little while longer.

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Road Trip Prep

Why can’t my mechanics look like this?

Two weeks from today, I’ll be packing up my car and heading to Montreal for a few days. I haven’t been since 2019, and I’ve really missed it. There was a time when I made the trip at least once a year, but that hasn’t been the case since COVID, and it feels long overdue.

I usually stay in the Village—or right on the edge of it—which means that’s where I spend most of my time. I’m sure my evenings (and probably my nights) will be spent there again, but during the day, I’m hoping to explore a bit more—visit a few museums, maybe do some shopping, and just enjoy being back in the city.

I know I have a few readers in Montreal, so if you have any “must do” recommendations, let me know. I’d love to hear them. And who knows—maybe we could even arrange a little Closet Professor coffee meetup while I’m there. It’s always been such a pleasure to meet readers in person. On one of my first trips, I met JiEL, which was especially nice.

In the meantime, today is all about getting ready for the trip in a more practical way. I was off work yesterday for my Botox injections for migraines—always a fun time—and I’m using up a few of those “take ‘em or lose ‘em” vacation days before they disappear into the bureaucratic abyss. So I’ve had a little extra time to get things lined up.

This morning, I’ll be spending it at the mechanic getting new tires, an oil change, and my annual state inspection. If my car passes inspection without any surprise add-ons, it will be nothing short of a miracle. I’m convinced no one ever passes a Vermont inspection on the first try. I’m pretty sure they found something the very first time I brought my car in—when I’d only had it for a week.

Part of that may be because I bought the car in New Hampshire—it was several thousand dollars cheaper—but that meant having it inspected here in Vermont, even though it was brand new. The two states have different inspection requirements, which seems a bit ridiculous to me. You’d think something as basic as vehicle safety standards would be consistent across states. But then again, Vermont has always liked doing things its own way. There’s a reason you see those bumper stickers that say, “Keep Vermont Weird.”

I hope you all have a wonderful day.

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A Queen Was Born by

Happy Birthday, Isabella!

Ten years ago, in Maryland, a cat gave birth to a beautiful black kitten. That little kitten, along with her brothers, would eventually make her way to Vermont—though neither of us knew at the time just how much we would come to need one another.

I had been in Vermont for about eight months. It was a difficult season in my life. I was lonely and struggling with depression, still grieving the loss of one of my best friends, who had died in a car accident just seven months earlier. My two cats were still back in Alabama because my apartment didn’t allow pets, and I felt their absence deeply.

One day, while my landlords were downstairs renovating an apartment, I mentioned that I was planning to move so I could have a cat again. They told me that if I put down a $50 deposit, I could have one. That was all I needed to hear. I got my checkbook and wrote the check that day.

I went to the local humane society and told them I wanted to adopt a kitten. They said they had four—three males and one female. The three males were tumbling over each other, full of energy and mischief. But off to the side, tucked under a chair, was a small, solid black kitten—quiet, a little frightened, and completely alone.

I picked her up, and in that moment, I knew. She was meant for me.

Her name was Bridget, which just didn’t fit. My previous cat, Victoria—named for Queen Victoria—had truly been a queen in every sense, and on this blog she was known as HRH, Her Royal Highness. I had lost her just shy of her 16th birthday, and I still felt that absence.

So I decided this kitten needed a queen’s name too.

Elizabeth was out (my sister already had that name), Mary didn’t feel quite right, and Catherine… well, I wasn’t going to name a cat “Cat.” I wanted something strong. I considered Boadicea—Boudica—but it felt a bit unwieldy. Then I landed on Isabella, after Isabella I of Castile, the formidable queen who completed the Reconquista and helped finance Christopher Columbus’s voyage.

And just like that, Bridget became Isabella.

She took to the name immediately—and has lived up to it ever since.

When I first saw her, she was a scared and lonely kitten, and I was a depressed and lonely man. Somehow, together, we found our way through both her fear and my grief. I had good friends, like Susan, who helped me through that time—but Isabella deserves a great deal of the credit as well.

Even now, I still have days—or sometimes weeks—when depression creeps back in. But Isabella is always there.

She’s not exactly a cuddler, at least not in the traditional sense. She doesn’t curl up in my arms or demand constant affection. But she is always near. Always in the same room. Sometimes under the bed, sometimes tucked into a corner, sometimes simply watching. And when she does want to be close, she’ll come lay across my hip.

The closest she comes to cuddling is when I’m on my back and she stretches herself along me, her paws resting on my chest, quietly asking to be petted.

As I write this, she’s standing beside me, reminding me that it’s time to stop typing and start giving her the attention she believes she is owed—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Ten years ago today, I had no idea that the best medicine for my loneliness and depression had just been born 500 miles south of Vermont.

But I’m very glad she was. 

Happy Birthday, Isabella. 🎂🐈‍⬛

A little cat birthday humor for you: