Belly of the Whale

Feb 28

I had one of those experiences today, the kind where everything becomes sterling and right. I was preparing to go to a potluck dinner at Lydia’s, but I needed to go for a run first. Widge and I decided on the Rattlesnake.
The sun had already set when we started out. The moon was in its first quarter, bright and at its zenith, lighting the snow, casting tree-shadows. My legs felt so fresh and happy to be out. Running through the trees in the moonshine was as wonderful as anything I have ever felt. Not that the intensity is that of skydiving, but in a therapeutic, harmonic, rejuvenative, and blissful sense. There was nowhere else I could have cared to be. This was it; as good as it gets.

But why, I wondered? What I realized was that it was the very fact that I don’t get it every day. I don’t o.d. on endorphins anymore like I have in the past. Now I spend a mass amount of time seated, staring at paper or a screen. Six p.m. was my first time out of the house.

So here is my secret to happiness: find a duality, two modes of life, somewhat opposite; they ought to balance themselves—but love both. For example: work and play, read and run, teach and climb, whatever. Make life a thing where you are always looking forward to something which will actually take place: I can’t wait to go for my run—then go. Running: I can’t wait to go and read my book later—then do it. To have the things we love in our lives, but to have them balanced by things quite different that help us to appreciate them. I used to ski and then climb almost everyday a few winters back. It was bliss, but as soon as I came to accept that this was the norm—then the joy wears off. There was no counter—nothing to give perspective. Now I read all day and can’t wait for a run. Tomorrow I am going out for a long ski and will be psyched to do nothing Monday but sit around and read.

If the grass is always greener. . . then enjoy hoping the fence.