I recently ran my first marathon. It was a cold, February morning, and according to my peers (and here I take paraphrastic liberties for dramatic effect) I was a deranged masochist. But you may all rest assured that I did not enjoy the cold nor did I enjoy the pain.
I did, however, learn a lesson.
In addition to a marathon, this event also featured a half-marathon and a 10k. For the marathoners, the course consisted of two 13.1 mile loops. The half-marathoners would finish after one lap, and the 10k-ers would break off after roughly six miles. Regardless, we all started together.
When the gun went off, so did my competitive spirit. Oblivious to the fact that those around me were mostly running the 10k or the half-marathon, I went with the pack, which was going at a much faster clip than I could hold for a full marathon. When I reached the halfway point (and apparently regained the capacity for rational thought), I thought to myself, "Whoops."
13.1 miles and a foot injury later, I finished, but barely.
Well, great. I just told my marathon story. But what is this talk of a "lesson"? As I plopped down in a conveniently-provided chair at the finish of the race, unable to move, I realized two things:
1. A marathon hurts a LOT more the second half than the first.
2. The discomfort could have been significantly reduced had I gone at my own pace.
And here I realized an aspect of my life that I needed to work on changing. The competitive spirit may be a good thing, but too often I feel that I am hindered by it. It fosters motivation, innovation, and productivity. However, as I learned, it can also breed irrational behavior, unnecessary stress, and exhaustion in this race that is life. Here the question becomes age-old: what is life really about?
I suppose in the end we all want to do great things, and that takes motivation, innovation, and productivity. But also I know that I don't want to be irrational, stressed, and exhausted my entire life while I am busy being motivated, innovative, and productive. I guess the key, as with all things, is balance. Yin and Yang. Splitting the competitive spirit into its yolk and its whites and using them properly in the mix. Easier said than done, of course.
However, one thing I can say for certain is that life is a race. If one goes at his own pace from the beginning rather than basing his pace off of others who are running their own races, he will most definitely finish strong.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Sad Story
A friend shared with me an article today which haunted me for the rest of my day.
Here is the link:
http://www.egodialogues.com/general/violinist-in-metro.php
In a nutshell, a world-famous violinist taking part in a social experiment performs in a Washington D.C. subway station, attracts very few listeners, and makes only $32. The vast majority of the attention he was paid came from young children.
What also struck me was the author's conclusions on the matter:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
My additional thoughts would only be that so many people do things because they are "fashionable" that they forget to look at things with their own eyes, listen with their own ears, and appreciate anything with their own hearts.
I am guilty.
This applies to not only the arts but to life in general. In our hurry to get from point A to point B to point C to point D ad infinitum, how many things do we miss every day that have the potential to affect us, move us, or change our lives? Unlike the child, we are aware. We are purpose-driven. We are cynical. We have seen. We are trying to win the race. Why should we stop to listen to the street performer? Is he not like all of us?
No.
At least not in that given moment. The street performer is not moving from point to point. He is static in horizontal space. The only motions he makes are the motions that result in expression, whether virtuosic or untrained. But as we rush by, he becomes part of our blurred, meaningless landscape. The mountain is not moving. The only motions perceivable are the expressions of life that result in the song that reverberates throughout this age-old earth. But as we drive by, it becomes part of our blurred, meaningless landscape.
The next time I see a street performer, I will give him a generous tip.
Here is the link:
http://www.egodialogues.com/general/violinist-in-metro.php
In a nutshell, a world-famous violinist taking part in a social experiment performs in a Washington D.C. subway station, attracts very few listeners, and makes only $32. The vast majority of the attention he was paid came from young children.
What also struck me was the author's conclusions on the matter:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
My additional thoughts would only be that so many people do things because they are "fashionable" that they forget to look at things with their own eyes, listen with their own ears, and appreciate anything with their own hearts.
I am guilty.
This applies to not only the arts but to life in general. In our hurry to get from point A to point B to point C to point D ad infinitum, how many things do we miss every day that have the potential to affect us, move us, or change our lives? Unlike the child, we are aware. We are purpose-driven. We are cynical. We have seen. We are trying to win the race. Why should we stop to listen to the street performer? Is he not like all of us?
No.
At least not in that given moment. The street performer is not moving from point to point. He is static in horizontal space. The only motions he makes are the motions that result in expression, whether virtuosic or untrained. But as we rush by, he becomes part of our blurred, meaningless landscape. The mountain is not moving. The only motions perceivable are the expressions of life that result in the song that reverberates throughout this age-old earth. But as we drive by, it becomes part of our blurred, meaningless landscape.
The next time I see a street performer, I will give him a generous tip.
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