It’s an astounding thing how lonely can permeate the thickest layers of protectionism like nothing else. And it’s astounding how lonely makes you want connection more than anything, yet creates an impermeable barrier that nothing else is capable of penetrating. It’s quite a double-edged phenomenon.

Who comes up with these things?

Excitement waned. Quickly. Once the intensity of what was required hit, self-doubt seeped into the delighted anticipation of the challenge that loomed ahead.

The day began its ordinary way: head buried into the pillow to avoid a sun-kissed wake-up call. Then a thought began crawling around, animating toes and legs as it teasingly taunted “what’s in for today?”

That’s all it took. Springing to life and shaking out a bit of the sore from the previous day as the closest rags of comfort get scooped off the floor and carelessly thrown on to speed up the discovery of that itching question. Sliding down the stairs straightaway to the computer, one click and a refresh later, I mumble “this is going to be good.”

Working on push-press, one of my weaker skills. Good. Then it gets more juicy, my smile gets wider, my toes start dancing more wildly every line down I read:
40 Kettlebell Swing (heavier weight than usual)
20 Burpees
30 Kettlebell Swings
15 Burpees
20 Kettlebell Swings
10 Burpees

5:30 couldn’t come quickly enough.

The daily routine went its delicious way, the minutes ticking closer to that intoxicating 3-2-1-GO time when a potential stumble-block entered the picture. Dinner invitation at 5:45, accompanied by the guilty minions of “please, it really would mean so much. It may be the last chance to do this and it’s only a workout. You can miss ONE.” WHAT?! Sure I can. But I won’t. I’m insensitive and selfish. Possibly. Stumble hurtled. WOD to follow.

During the agility ladder warm up, I catch glimpses of kettlebells in my periphery and the excitement rises. Pullups performed in close proximity, a minor tease of the joy to come. Calisthenics, check. Push-press sets, check.
Set up for the WOD.

I grin as I approach the collection of rainbow temptation. My usual 35# friend, today I forgo you; well, not completely as a few warm-up swings with you are in order.
WOD kettlebell, WOD kettlebell, hmm 45#? Really?

My fingers circle the handle, hips lowered, tension throughout my hamstrings as I begin to lift my much-anticipated companion from the floor. It hits the ground.

This is it. This is where my excitement wanes. I look at the board innocently harboring a medley of letters and numbers only to see a malicious smirk taking form in the tilt of scribbles.

What did I commit to? Oh god, this is going to hurt.

I hoist my 45# kettlebell and shuffle over to my patch of rubber flooring, give a few practice swings all-the-while considering the state of my sanity.

“10 second count-down!!” And it begins.

The first 5,7, 8 feel good. I feel strong. 4 more swings and KB is on the ground with me leaning over it, dripping sweat on the very handles I need a firm grasp on to swing again. 9 in a row. Breathe. Step away. Over half-way through the first set. Don’t think, swing, And swing. 30 down, 10 to go. All I can think about is keeping tight, hips, abs, control, 3, 2, 1 and my kettlebell is on the ground, as am I. Burpees start before the mind can override the action, convincing the body it needs to rest. 6 done, 3 breathes, go, go, go. Stop. Just go, just knock these out.  It’s only 20 and I make it though.

Back on the KB with the reminder it’s only 30. 15 and 15. I’ve got this. After number ten I get squirrely, things get loose and I step away. Far away. Outside away. Back again for more. 6 closer and not bothering to drop my hands from the weight, I go again. 1, 2. And walk away. I see that black blob of hell and return to conquer. No other choice, swing again. Rest again. And back. 30 done.

Burpee time. I double over before I fall into the bottom of #1 only to push out again. 14 to go and I’m beat. So I don’t think, only jump and drop and push and jump. One at a time, grunting as I go. Somehow, the primitive sounding exhalations help me go beyond that one next movement that distances me from completion. Only 5 more. 2/3 done and I hurt.  But I push through.

Back on the kettlebell. 4 in and it’s back on the ground. 16 more. 16 is a daunting number. 16 more as I walk in circles, gasping for air, sweat-drenched and dreading the next. I return for another go. I must turn my mind off. I can’t think, only move. At 12 the tears mix with dripping sweat. I walk back to it, grab hold and step away again. I catch my head shaking “no” and realize this is my battle ground. I decide, right now, the outcome. I swing, determined not to allow this to best me.

20 KB swings done, it’s only 10 more burpees and I drop to the ground. 3 in and I collapse, not able to find the muscles to push myself off the ground. Attempt again. Fail. Try again. I will myself up, knowing I must finish. It’s ugly, the last of the burpees. But one and one and one and done.

9 minutes 47 seconds later I’m sucking air, too tired to be proud, too beat down to talk to think to write.

Cruel and usual

A recent conversation with my body went as such: Body, what’s wrong with you? You’re not performing well, our energy levels are low, I give you good food and we workout all the time. Where are the gains? I’m not seeing that six-pack or shelf-booty. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Then I blushed, stammering out an apology.

When is the last time I thanked my body for where it’s at? When the last time I accepted it as-is, appreciated the gains and strides it’s made, loved it for how amazingly it performs on a regular basis or even checked-in to see how it might be doing? I don’t give it the rest as I should. I take my frustrations out on it, make it the defacto-scapegoat of my lack of challenge in other venues. I get angry when injuries happen. I want to push further, faster, harder NOW, forgetting that I can run, jump and lift more than ever before. It’s no wonder I’ve hit a wall constructed of plateaus and frustrations, exhaustion and weakness both physically and mentally.

I ask a lot from my body. I have high expectations and a competitive nature with how I envision I should be, what I should be capable of, and little patience when I don’t hit the mark. I see my “flaws”, measure myself in unfair units of comparison, see only how far I need to go while completely ignoring the progress, the gains in strength and power, the accomplishments of feats I never envisioned to be within my realm of possibility.

I force dietary restrictions and assume that I know best how to find the sweet zone. I (mostly) eat sane and healthy. I get agitated when I don’t see the egotistically entitled improvements immediately. I cheat, I binge, I hate and resent what stares back in the mirror. I silently scream that we’re not enough and there will be no acceptance until that happens. There’s much I don’t comprehend about my body: I have no idea what I need to put into it for primal operations, how to find balance of nutrients, intake and expenditure. Yet I demand endlessly. Indentured servitude at its most vile.

Were this a friend’s relationship, I would be repulsed by the abusive tones, sharing my thoughts on how unhealthy, unsustainable, defaming it is. Yet this is the relationship I have with my body. These are the expectations and demands I’ve made without any reciprocation of attention, appreciation, gratitude. This is my abuse.

And this realization shifted the way I relate to my body, the way I communicate with it, the way I listen and try to understand the cues and pushes it provides. I stretch more. I notice the way being happy makes my body light. I’ve been doing more wiggle and jiggle and bounce,  moving without critique and rigidity. I shake my hips while I bush my teeth, hang upside down and practice accepting and enjoying what I’m capable of doing now. I ask my body what I should eat, what it might need.  I pay attention. I don’t always understand.

And I say thank you. Thank you for emphasizing my imbalances, the tension, the tightness, the grace, the strength. Thank you that I’ve been endowed with this particular body. Thank you for how far we’ve come. Thank you for what’s to follow. I’m working on staying in a place of gratitude for my astounding capacities of and loving me just where I am.

This feels heathy. This feels right.

Fortune favors the failed

Failure has been a theme of life, most recently a welcomed and even sought after endeavor. With its array of negative connotations, failure is often coated with a veneer of shame and embarrassment. It’s something adamantly avoided  and anything plastered with the dreaded label marginalized. Rare are the venues where failure is an encouraged habit. Yet can there be such a thing as success without failure?

I sought failure recently when I became dissatisfied with static averages and incremental, barely noticeable gains. I wearied of the constant post-workout patter of “I could have done more, gone heavier, put in another round”. So I practiced failing. At every opportunity in the gym, I fail. I want to know what I’m not able to do. Yet. I want to have a number on my books that’s circled with FAIL proudly scribbled beside it. How else to gauge ones success’ than by pursuing failures? As a frequent consort, failure is demoralizing and exhaustive. Though when it’s sought after it gains creative power as a tool to brush away the film of complacency, a measuring stick of progress and a benchmark to vault from on the next attempt. I want to fail, because the next time I reach failure I’ve invariably succeeded. I’ve forcefully pushed the barriers of limitations to a point beyond, providing a new horizon to gaze into.

Failure: cessation of normal operation. A lack of success or adequacy.

In the journey to exceptional we fail, we make mistakes, we learn, and we move away from the “normal operations” that historically define our identities and possibilities. As far as definitions are concerned, any route from normal operations may as well automatically be labeled failure, even when it’s an instantaneous success. Normal operation seems a marker of mere adequacy, so why the resistance to absolve ourselves of their influence?

Virtuosity, doing the ordinary exceptionally well, requires stepping away from the path of normal operations and failing ever better.  Who measures success or adequacy? What are the benchmarks for those stamps to be levies or judgments to be restrained? Why is there so much concern about the criticisms, rebukes, sticks and carrots of people whom, typically, there is little true respect or admiration for? Who do we seek failure for, for whom do we avoid it?

It’s far less painful to reside in a place of mundane adequacy where there is no struggle for growth than to risk being stamped with failure. Far less rewarding as well.

“Is it not the madness of the fool who day after day falls into the same pit, yet is wholly proud to know the trick of how to climb out of it day after day?”

M,M,M Murph…

Murph! Dearest Murph-

You’ve been on my mind. I know we’ve only had one short(ish) fling together, but it was memorable. And left me wanting more. For days now, I’ve been dreaming of our time together, wondering, hoping and waiting for another of our fated appointments. The way my pulse trembles at the mere mention of your name…

How could I not crave more of you,  you leaving me sweaty, dizzy and panting, sore for days. I remember, fondly (in retrospect), wanting nothing more than for you to finish with me, to relegate you among the of cruelest of my accomplishments. Your insufferable demands and the way you kept going and going and the moaning. Oh yes, the moans.

Now, I nervously bite my lip, my heart rate increases, I begin to sweat. I wonder if I’m ready for another fling with you. It’s been too long. I’ve had others, plenty of panting and groans. Sprints and quickies, mostly. Not many can compare to your longevity, the tears, the rubbery legs, the convulsions, the exhaustion!  Mmmm, the delicious exhaustion.

Hip flexors begging for a reprieve, quivering quads and screaming glutes. The pushing and the pulling you demanded of me! When I wasn’t sure if my arms could pull any longer, we would drop to the ground and push and push more, labored breathing and dripping sweat. Then to my feet I’d struggle, ass out and chest up, down, up. Round after round. You made it hard to count. Groaning, my personal mantra to ease the pain. Mmmm, the pain.

Stumbling through the door, legs barely operable, the end in sight, distorted through the glaze of running perspiration. The next movement occupying my every thought, thundering with fresh vigor no longer, completion desired and nothing else. And finish we did, a sweaty collapse into a crumpled heap. A cheesy grin, a few high-fives, the wanton endorphin high and a shaky drive home.

Being among my favorite conquests, we should have another go. For old times sake. I know you won’t let me down.

*For those not familiar, Murph is: 1 mile run, 100 pullups, 200 pushups, 300 squats, 1 mile run. For time. 321…

Sensory overload

It’s a constant amazement how much information there is available to devour. There being no shortage of posts, manifestos, blogs, books and more in every perceivable direction, it’s difficult to sort through the applicable and meaningful, those bearing a possibility of impact but hold little or no relevance for the present situation, random blurbs that strike at the very core of reason, shattering perceptions of the greater world, and then the glut of trivialities and distractions that enable ongoing atrophy of purpose and time.

Voraciously consuming both the vital and the trivial, I desire to be handed what no one else can impart: direction.

Reasons and means and ways, motivation, real-life struggles and success’, maps and logs to chart the inner and outer landscapes, eloquent prose and tear-spilling angst, some dismissible and other brilliant. But none reveal the quest I’m destined to explore, proffering an explanation of purpose, offering neither guide map nor an assemblage of advisors to facilitate dreams through this fated trek. Most share the same message albeit in varied forms: go. Some more soothing and lyrical in their melody. Others,  missives that knock the air from lungs, imparting a hurt ass and bruised ego.

But where.

That’s where I find myself floundering. It’s not an abundance of apathy that asphyxiates desire nor a glut of laziness. It’s not the push and perseverance and arenas of work where I’m in need of encouragement. It’s simply the direction in which to act that seems distorted, it’s a productive use of this surplus time I’m in need of, some outlet for this volcanic energy that’s swelling. Here I wait, in my private vestibule where energy and desire are plentiful but a lack of purpose leaves a muddy mess with no progress. Waiting for…

And the answers, I, with my fatuous optimism keep hoping, will come like the falling of an apple antedating a grand epiphany. Fool.

Seek within, some would say. Elusive answers must be having an extended furlough because the query within turns up many vacancies, few signs of occupancy. And a bit of graffiti.

Follow your passions. Good advice, but my body can handle only so much preferred passion at a given time. Still the hours tick by with no progression, no clarity, no apocalyptic oracles spouting off about my heroic-leanings and fate touched by the gods.

So maybe it all comes down to perspective, and, that being completely within my realm of control, something worth rousing. Rather than this being ineffective hibernation, it’s the slow pull preparation for a catapultic ride. It’s best to harness my energies and enjoy the lassitude because this leisure will soon be a distant memory.

I should put up a hammock. And drink more tequila.

Feast or famine

Waking up to screaming isn’t my preferred alarm call. Today, it’s exactly what I got. And needed. When the voice is loudly vibrating through every crevice of my being, telling me in no uncertain terms “FUCK THE STATUS-QUO”, it’s tough to ignore and nearly impossible to wipe off the subsequent Cheshire grin.

A dream laid the groundwork for this particular epiphany. Rifling through clothing racks of ordinary after ordinary, same after same, realizing my choices weren’t choices at all. Fellow shoppers seem sedately content with designs by some other. I looked, I pondered, I knew it was wrong, that nothing would fit, that the available options would bring me nothing but dissatisfaction. These are my options? I’m required to garb myself in these trite offerings? Rejection after rejection then frustration. Hence the scream. And the grin.

Life often resembles a buffet, warmed plate in hand wandering through the rows of designer choices neatly laid out proffering appeals and temptations. There, where you can help yourself to prime and juicy. Or maybe something fluffy and buttery. Create-you-own with raw and crunch, being into delayed gratification and self-denial as you are. And the indulgent climax of desserts promising suspended dues, debaucheries typically denied. How fortunate to be able to fatten on paltry second-rate offerings.

Yet is this not typical of how we live our lives, choose our lovers, settle into vocations, vacations, brokering our dreams and passions for what’s laid out ala smörgåsbord?

It’s convenient. It aligns perfectly with comforts of scarcity thinking, allowing us to splash and sometimes thrash in our small puddles, suffering from poverty of imagination.

Try your hand at demanding special-order desires crafted from soul cravings rather than ready-made gratification. It’s a challenging endeavor: waiting, gaining patience, learning to listen to silent pulls, to be comfortable with not knowing. It’s lonely, when it seems everyone is feasting and you’re not even sure what you’re hungry for, what may truly satiate. It’s tempting to acquiesce to a set menu, when it seems disappointment one after another had graced you with its presence. When it’s sending back that relationship that was stale and cold or the job that left you empty. When you risk alone, it’s exploring the knife-edge of living, unsure where that next step will take you, even what it is. But when it’s the unknown of your choosing, it spices life to your liking.

And hey, if you don’t want to eat from the trough with the masses, you better toss your own salad.

 

Dear Dreamer,

It’s dreary, this lack of stoke. In its contagion it’s pervasive, the influx of doubt and insecurity somber and dense. It’s a fog that drowns out rivaling interests, no illuminations, no reassurances. Obstacle after obstacle veiling summits and blocking pathways. How many vertical climbs are possible before exertion brings exhaustion and the goal is reduces to ashes blown away in a moment, passion and drive alone not enough to sustain the Herculean endeavor? Crumbling under the pressures. Dust or diamond?

It’s understandable but not excusable.

Some things are too important to dismiss, too right from conception to abort. Continuation is necessary in spite of the opposition that seemingly looms at every bend. Neither success nor failure, you see, is a recluse’s phenomenon bearing a private load. The ripples it creates touches lives in ways unimaginable. With confusion and despair  prevalent, we need a hero. We need someone to stumble and fall and fail and fail again and fail better until they make it. We need to see it done. On a grand scale. Not on a private level where enlightenment happens and clarity is found. Of that there’s plenty. It’s good. But it’s not enough. We the masses demand titan war waged against the status quo. We need those who thrive in uncomfortable circumstances to do it again. We need to know that your impossible is possible. We need the unfolding of your exceptional to force us to stare into our accepted mediocrity and abandoned dreams.

The many have an array of ambitions relegated to dusty corners, normalcy dominating the innate yearnings for a life consisting of MORE, too fearful to even wade into the shallows of desire. Lacking the courage to succeed and the humility to fail, the many stagnate and fail totally. Are you becoming one of the many?

Enough of hackneyed. Where is your unorthodox? Domesticated and submissive, dare it even be called tame, fallen into the crux of comfortable though common isn’t you. Have you forgotten the thrill of wild and unexpected? Are you so reliant upon the crutch of habituated life that you no longer remember the proffered highs of your stimulus? Are there countless reasons why not and all echo with the voice of another, ringing conventional, hollow? Have you misplaced the dreamer, the fighter?

Please bring your defiance and play.

Artisan Bipeds Wanted

The world needs more beauty. It could definitely use more truth. More acceptance. More involvement. More compassion. More real.

It’s not required to be an artist in order to create beauty, simply a willingness to make visible that which without us wouldn’t exist.  It’s not mandated we be philanthropists shoveling money at a cause to impact the world swirling around us. Just involved.

We do need to be human. We need to remove our blinders that leave us staring at the screen of our own problems, caught up in our internal drama unaware of the struggles and joys of those we scrape against day after day. The ongoing mental dialog creates a bubble of oblivion, catching us in a cyclonic torrent of worries and judgments in which we avoiding engagement. And it goes on without notice, life goes on without us, caught a web of self-involvement, absently present in a stew of intoxicating ruminations.

A cure for this plague is easy enough: step back in. Quit being removed from the thickness of life around us. Connect. Look into the eyes of that person walking by. See them. For a moment. Allow a brief intimate encounter as you present yourself unguarded. Smile, nod, acknowledge. Give a compliment, an unsolicited spot of brightness to someone. On our crowded streets, in our dense cities, stuffed into tight spaces, how many of us feel invisible, alone, insignificant and forgotten? How many opportunities are we given to let someone know that they are more than a shadow blending into the darkness? How often do we wish someone would see us? To assure us that we’re real?

Speak. There is something that someone needs to hear from you. Sometimes it’s a gentle reminder that they exist. Sometimes it’s encouragement when one’s about give up on their dreams, on their lives, unfamiliar with anything other that doubt and hopelessness. A touch of humanity when confidence in lost. You can’t know what another’s need is and you can’t know the impact your impromptu offering may have.  Maybe the words aren’t present, not sure what another’s reaction may be. All you may have to guide you is a pull and a glimmer of an idea, something you ignore and try reasoning away till the moment had passed. Then empty. And possibly alone. So speak. Be venerable and unsure, be human. But shielding yourself away out of fear and insecurity leaves everyone in poverty.

Invite yourself to introduce a dose of ambient joy into your world. It’s immensely gratifying to see a flash of wow laced into another’s experience. It’s addictive to share a smile. It changes the way the world interacts with you. It compounds the depth of experience. It’s selfish, creating beauty. Do it for that if you must. Simply do it.