Always Falling Short

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Story

A cathartic epiphany.  The details are not autobiographical, but . . .

© 2001 Steven E. Cutts
recorded February 28, 2004
at Bias Studios (recorded and mixed by Jim Robeson)

on my ONE/THIRD album

 

  • Steve, acoustic guitar, vocal
  • Rod McCloy, piano
  • Jim Robeson, bass

 

Lyrics

When I was six, I’d stand straight and tall

With my back against the yard-stick nailed to our cellar door

And hope that this new pencil mark

Would soar above all the ones before.

And even though my mom would cheer how much I’d grown,

All that I could see

When I turned ‘round were all those inches still to reach.

Always falling short of where I dreamed I’d be.

 

Every fall  --  county fair  --  I would gather from mom’s garden

Apples, squash, and pears

Convinced that we’d be “Best in Show,"

The produce champs extraordinaire.

Our baskets would win prizes that were red and white;

All that I could see

Were coveted blue ribbons hung on others’ fruits.

Always falling short of where I dreamed I’d be.

 

I finally took that yardstick down

When we sold Mom’s house a year ago;

I scrubbed away those pencil marks

Climbing up and up

Toward an ever-shifting goal.

 

I think Jesus should have said,

“Bless’d are the satisfied; bless’d are the content.”

In tearing down that measure of my childhood’s dreams

I could finally see

I’ve always set my sights on being something more;

Never happy with where I was;

Always falling short of where I dreamed I’d be.