I’ve been thinking recently about the theme of sacrifice.

When things are good, when we feel comfortable, we rarely have to think about willingly giving up the things we care about.

But in times of hardship, we must give up what we care about now in exchange for the things we’ll care about in future. Mankind is a genius in that respect. We know that the future exists, and we know that what we do right now has the power to affect that future. Other animals haven’t figured that out just yet. This gives us a significant advantage over other animals when it comes to times of crisis.

In a crisis, you’ll know the right thing to do because it will be the thing you least want to do, or the thing you must sacrifice will be the thing you most want to keep. This is our animal instinct speaking up and telling us to take care of right now, to think about our immediate desires and gratify our impulses immediately.

But we possess a higher instinct that tells us to weigh up our options and consider if we might be better off delaying gratification in the present to potentially receive a greater reward in the future.

This is the nature of sacrifice, and it rarely makes us happy. But despite our aversion to sacrifice, it is entirely essential to human survival and progress. In war, we send our sons to the slaughter. They may not return, and if they do return, they return changed, possibly unrecognizable. At home, parents must sacrifice their selfish desires and ambitions, and all their spare time and resources too, for the sake of their children’s potential prosperity. And they must do this with no expectation of their children appreciating or repaying their devotion. During times of mental despair and doubt, we must send what is best, strongest, and most capable in us down into the depths to battle our demons. Frequently the agents we send on these missions do not return, or they return utterly changed. This is the risk we take whenever we interact with the world. We must gamble at high stakes for the chance to create a better future.

Many have remarked upon this fact of life and found it to be sad. But not me.

I think there’s great glory in going out into death and danger for the sake of the ones we care about. I think those called to make great sacrifices in times of trial are blessed by the Fates with an opportunity to show real courage and fortitude, though I’m sure they don’t feel that way themselves at the time.

I often put myself into their shoes and wonder how I would react. How would I rationalize my way out of it? How would I justify cowardice? What would it take to make me leave everything I care about and give myself over to some noble cause? How much, exactly, am I prepared to give up? As a father with dependants who count on me, how much do I have a right to give up?

I don’t have the answers to all those questions, and the few answers I do have I ain’t sharing.

But I think it’s essential that we ask these questions of ourselves so that we’ve got some of the groundwork done before we’re ever faced with the decision to sacrifice our selfish desires in service to others.

When we sacrifice, we serve some greater purpose than our ego and urges. To be of service is a high and noble calling. To serve our families, our communities, our people, our nation. There are all kinds of ways we can make ourselves of service to a great and worthy cause. But to be of service, we must first be fit for service. We must first make sacrifices for our own sake to become the type of person who could be useful to others at need.

This is why I always say that the right thing to do is improve yourself, then improve your family, then your people, then the world.

But always start with yourself.

These are the thoughts that went through my mind when I wrote this poem. It came to me over the course of about 20 minutes while I was driving. It sprung up as I thought of a verse from Havamal that begins: “The eagle comes to the ancient sea.”

It was the rhythm of that line that inspired the first line of this poem, and from there, connections were made and images appeared which gave birth to the poem you see here. While I drove, I composed it in my head and recorded it into my phone. It came in one flow, and I didn’t change a word after I recorded it.

It ain’t the world’s best poem, but something in it speaks to me.

I don’t know what it all means. Much of it is a mystery to me. But that’s because it isn’t really mine. It came through me from somewhere else, someplace no man has traveled.

That’s what it’s like to be a writer, sometimes. You think you’re creating something clever and vital, but it isn’t really you. It comes from somewhere else entirely, through you. You could call it divine inspiration, and indeed many writers have done so for thousands of years.

But you’ve got to give these things up. They don’t belong to you.

Once you’ve created something, you give it to the world and let the world do as it will with it. It’s the same for your poems, your stories, your children, your work, your health, your mind, and your identity. Everything you have will be taken from you in time, so make the best use of what you’ve got while you can.

Because one day, you’ll have to give it all back to the world. So you’d probably be better off giving things back right now, while you’ve got a choice in the matter.

Ask yourself what vision you’d wish to make manifest in the future, what would you change about the world if you had the power to do so. Then ask yourself what you need to do to make it happen. Then give up everything that doesn’t serve your purpose.

You can start small with this process before making any dramatic changes to your life. You could start by giving up social media, or coffee, or beer, or pointless relationships. A small sacrifice, not very dramatic in the grand scheme of things, but an excellent place to start.

Why don’t you start letting go of little things today and see what you can do without them?

Exercise your capacity to sacrifice for the greater good so that you can make those grand selfless offerings to the future when you get the call.