This is what I know.
I know that opening up the New York Times today will make me angry and sad but I will probably do it anyway. Like when I was a kid on the farm and every now and then I just had to touch the electric fence. Sometimes I guess I need to feel the pain.
I know that I am happier when I run more than is probably healthy for me on more days of the week than I should. I know this, but I still have a hard time getting out the door most days.
Why does it seem easier to do what I know is bad for me than to do what I know is good for me?
The things that I know are not good for me are often the quick and easy fix and they involve an external input. They are a shot of strong espresso when I’m feeling drowsy. They will jolt me into a temporary state of bliss, but the inevitable crash will leave me feeling more lethargic than before.
Conversely, the things I know are good for me require internal output from me. They ask me to give something of myself. Maybe it’s sitting down and writing uninterrupted for a period of time, making the effort to prepare my own meals, or getting out for that run even when the wind is howling and the rain is pelting down.
Here is something else that I know.
You get back what you put in.
It is a fundamental law of nature. Matter and energy are neither created nor destroyed. They are transformed. If I give something of myself, I will get something in return.
What do you know?
What will you do with it?
The rain fell hard this evening after the workday was done. I put on my shoes and out the door I went as the drops began to fall. They gathered steam as so did I. Around the town my footsteps fell while the drops hit the ground. A chill wind blew and the beacon flash from across the sound at the Cape Lookout lighthouse was masked by veils of water. Shirt soaked through, water squishing out the mesh of my shoes and dripping off the tip of my nose. What could be more exquisite than this?
I was running up Greybeard Mountain when I reached a state of total acceptance. I accepted the pain and fatigue in my legs along with the beauty of the snow and ice-covered trail. I accepted the thoughts that questioned why I was doing this and the lessons of humility and perseverance that running teaches me. I accepted the difficult conditions of the day: the steepness of the trail, the slippery surfaces that caused each footfall to slide a little bit backward, and the growing fatigue in my body as I neared the top of my second ascent of the mountain. To try and fight these things would be futile. Acceptance was the only answer.