It is either the most beautiful song I have ever heard or something else. It’s one of those rare moments where you shed all the pessimism and your soul fills with peace and clarity until it leaks out of the corner of your eye.
So this is why people meditate.
Funny it hits me at the airport of all places. I am plugged into Gregory Alan Isakov’s new album, Evening Machines, waiting for my flight and preparing my mind for a race. In the morning I am to run the Twin Cities Marathon and hopefully qualify for Boston.
Those who believe that people never change probably aren’t runners. I’m not the same since I started running. Thousands of training miles have shaved 40 pounds off my body. Five years of sun, wind, and weather have left their mark. But it changes you on the inside, too. The little hamster wheel in your skull gets replaced with better equipment.
Running is thinking. Or meditating. Or self-imposed torture. You do it long enough and your mind changes along with your body. You can develop the ability to separate, to float above yourself and observe your thoughts. It doesn’t prevent you from making stupid mistakes or inoculate you from bias, but it strengthens that muscle that helps you find beauty hidden in your suffering.
It gives you the ability to find your footing in the loose dirt of life, the stress and bustle of an airport, the sharp elbows of crowded, competitive workplaces, in the chaos of an upside down world racing towards either a golden age or cataclysm depending on which direction you believe is up.
When you run you struggle, hurt, fail, you wonder why you signed up for the race in the first place. You surrender your free time for the opportunity to battle through injury, warts, trail-side diarrhea, rain and snow, hemorrhoids, headwind, chafing, vomit, heat and cold. Then on race day you wonder how you are getting passed by a guy wearing sandals. Maybe you find the humility to ask for help, to seek out a coach, to admit that you can’t do this alone.
You keep running and slowly you start to figure things out. You select your sticks and stones, embracing the discomfort because you know that pain makes you stronger. You learn how to tolerate opposition, how to transform barking prairie dog skeptics into raving fans. You survive at the edges of functional depletion, balancing the energy required to keep running with the effort needed to meet the other demands of life.
Eventually it starts to come together, you rediscover your stride, you break through. You learn how to chase down rivals, to pace yourself next to friendly strangers, to encourage those bonking in the final miles before the finish line.
With a little success under your belt, you set new goals, you wonder if you have another gear, if there is another level waiting to be unlocked. Running makes you wonder what other impossibilities will surrender to your will. What are your limits?
Then you realize that you misunderstood the purpose of the race, that while thousands crowd the starting corals the real competition is individual, each of us battling our own demon and defeating our personal limitations. Surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, you can shake off everything that hinders and entangles. You can find the perseverance to run the race in front of you.
The hotel alarm goes off but I have already been awake for a while, calming my nerves with a little coffee, a little yoga, and more Isakov. It won’t be long before I am crossing the finish line, shaving 12 minutes off my personal best. I will take some time to indulge my urge to celebrate. I will thank all the people who have helped me. I will reflect on my training. I will congratulate my fellow runners. But not for too long. I have to keep running. There is Boston in 2020, and so many miles beyond.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed my words, jog along side me because I write every Saturday morning. Stay creative.
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