I am not, by nature, one who is good at cooling my heels. For most of my life, I have found myself (consciously or not) echoing these lines from the mouth of Tennyson's Ulysses:
"How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!"
Now, contra:
Milton was in his early 40's and going blind, with half or more of his career ahead of him. While he was a theist in ways I very much am not, we share a fervent belief that whatever gifts one was born with are an investment from the gods and that leading a useful and good life means making the best use of those talents. (In the sonnet below, 'Talent' is a pun, referring both to 'talent' in the traditional sense, and to the unit of currency known as the Talent, most widely known in Christendom from the "Parable of Talents" in the Gospel of Matthew). In his 19th sonnet, Milton ponders how to "be of use" as he literally runs out of light.
I think the greater portion of the people reading these words can identify with the fear of one's talents going to waste. I'm certain that during the pandemic I'm not alone in having had cause to "consider how [our] light is spent". I'm equally certain that most of us have grown weary of waiting for a return to some semblance of normalcy while wondering what that world will look lie.
I'm not entirely certain I agree with Milton's conclusion here (at least for myself), but I know that Milton and I would have been fast friends... because he wrestled with the question.
If you find yourself wrestling with what it means to be a good friend during difficult times, or to be a good family member while the world turns upside down, or just how to be the best version of yourself in limiting circumstances, know that you're not alone. There is comfort, for me, in the knowledge that greater minds than mine have struggled with that question.
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.”— Milton
