I have run the past two days, totaling more mileage (just shy of 5 miles) than I have accrued since the day after plica surgery on April 2 (I ran 5K the morning of the surgery - perhaps the antecedent to the complications?). This piece was just written for an intensive teacher-class I just took - 9+ hours in the classroom each weekday, tons of reading, and, gasp, homework. Reckoned I'd throw it up here for a more permanent record, and as a reflection of things beyond running.
“I learned this, at least, by my experiment;
that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors
to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected
in common hours. . . . As he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will
appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty,
nor weakness weakness."
- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
I
was six or seven. It was summer. A clear day, blue sky, the woody smell
of Vermont’s Green Mountains deepened by the heat. I was sitting on the third step leading up to the porch
where we stacked our wood for the winter and had the swinging bench for summer
days and nights. The stairs faced
the giant tree, the one I was always too nervous to climb. The one with the “pull bark” that I
would pick and flick like little knives.
I was crying. The tears came from a realization. A realization that one
day, any day, I could die. For some reason, unknown to me, on this
day I confronted the only promise of human life, the promise that we will all
end. It was not an anxious moment,
a depressed moment, it was just a great epiphany. Still, it scared the shit out of me.
. . .
There
was a growing sense of foreboding.
We’ve all had it - that twisting pit of anxiety that builds in the
bottom of your stomach and gradually builds to consume your mind, training your
thoughts on all the negative possibilities. The freezing cold water, engulfing me to my naval, did
little to inspire confidence. The
cold caused my breath to grow shallow. Despite being surrounded by all this fresh
water, my mouth began to go dry.
This was going to end badly.
Very badly. Why was I doing
this to Liz?
“Dad,
we’re swimming across,” Cooper proclaimed, the general soft, “kid”
quality of his six-year-old voice masking a brash confidence I had lacked in
youth, and adulthood. My
four-year-old, Jacoby, mirrored this confidence, but had the sense to say he’d
be swimming on my back. Between us
and the far edge of Walden Pond lay a stretch of water that, despite being
crystal clear looked like a black-hole, it’s impressive depth swallowing all
the light before it could return to the surface. Every instinct I had as a parent cringed at the thought of
letting my two sons, whom I love deeper than my own life, risk theirs to swim
across this water. There was no reason to do it, other than to fulfill a
natural sense of wonder and exploration, the same drive that propelled the
earliest humans to step into the unknown and explore the world. I thought of Liz, who, during the summer
months works longer hours while I watch the boys. How could I tell her what was sure to happen to one, or both,
of our children? Heart racing,
every muscle tensed, every ounce of parental instinct screaming, “NO!” we
pushed off and began the swim. This was going to end badly. Very badly.
. . .
Years
before, my Grandpa Barney struggled to enjoy the last bit of his failing
strength and vigor. He and I strolled
the beach outside his Florida home, an activity once done for hours without
rest. Today, we stopped at every
beach chair we could find, Grandpa clearly struggling to walk the fifty yards
between each. Despite his
troubles, we shared the deepest conversation we had ever had. The details are fuzzy, bleated out by
the bright sun and my realization that this would be the last time I could
share a walk with him. But looking
at the man who, through his work and economic acumen had brought financial fortune
to my family, I confessed the fear that I would never make much money. My grandfather, who had started humbly,
peddling fruit in Brooklyn to feed his family, then laid bricks, and eventually
became a successful builder during the heyday of Detroit, told me, “Josh, there
are many forms of success.” We sat silently for a moment. “Money is only one
measure. It’s probably the least
important.” The conversation ended as we reached the next beach chair, Grandpa
winded, eyes closed as he struggled to catch his breath, those “other” forms of
success left a mystery to my freshly minted, college-graduate mind. A mystery
that remains to be discovered through living.
Years
later, I walked this same stretch of beach. It was late at night, mid-February, the temperature a
welcome, but unnoticed relief from the wicked cold I had left in Boston a mere
twelve hours before. My mind
remained in my grandparent’s home, where, just minutes before, I had held
Grandpa Barney’s head, gently running my hand through his beautifully silver
hair, hearing the “death rattle” in his throat, speaking to a spirit I hoped
remained in the wasted, unconscious body.
As he lay dying we shared a moment of physical intimacy we had never shared
before. I said goodbye and, alone,
left the light of the building, left the pain of my parents and grandmother,
who would keep vigil that night, to walk to the hotel where my wife and two
boys were waiting, asleep. With not
another soul in sight along the entire ten-mile beach, I stopped. At first I heard the waves, their melodic
rhythm unending, infinite. I
pitied my loss, my grandfather’s pain.
I turned to the heavens, to the great expanse of sky above the water and
was awed by the sheer scope of the universe, the stars, eternal beacons to
worlds beyond our reach, and to the great human sense of exploration. Looking at that night sky, I realized I
was looking at the same stars, which were forming the same patterns, which had
been looked to in moments of joy and sorrow and contemplation for thousands of
years. As my grandfather’s last bit of life was leaving his body, I thought of
how every moment, in all of creation, had led to this one. In this moment, wrapped in the personal
suffering of loss, I thought of all the people who were, at that moment, comforting
their loved ones in death, or were welcoming their child to the world, or were
meeting the love of their life for the first time. I thought of all the people who, despite the infinite
vastness and opportunity that spread above me, were thinking of my grandfather. From his earliest days, pushing his wooden
fruit cart on the streets of Brooklyn, to his days as a grandfather and a
great-grandfather, and all his days in between, his eternal stars were his relationships
with others. His honesty. His integrity. His love.
There
are many forms of success.
. . .
It
had been a long three months for me.
Just weeks from the 100-Mile Trail Running National Championships, where
I was confident in a top finish, my knee flared up. I knew exactly what the pain was, having suffered from this
three times before, and did all I could to rehab. My fitness, both the physical and the mental, that is needed to run 100 miles was at an all-time high,
having been built over the previous year through long miles and wake-ups that
match last call at many bars, and an almost maniacal focus. As the weeks
progressed and the recovery did not, this was lost. I dropped from the championships, mourning the lose of a
reality I had pictured, but that had never existed. Fourteen weeks from the
initial flare of injury, after nearly two months of consideration and counsel, I
stood on the eve of a “simple” surgery, which promised to fix my knee, fix the
problem, forever. In about fifteen
hours a surgeon would put his tools into my knee, but first there was this
ridiculous coaches meeting I had to attend.
It
was Tuesday, April 1, 2014. I had
missed bedtime with the boys to sit among close to two hundred coaches for the
Town of Arlington, mostly dads, many of whom joked around and caught up, my
natural introvert squirming as I sat awkwardly at a middle-school cafeteria
table, just waiting for the meeting to end. In lieu of my usually intense, and
time-consuming training, I had signed up to coach my son’s U-8 soccer team,
this meeting marking the start of the spring season and my formal commitment to
three days a week of practice and games.
I was dismayed when Mike Singleton, the director of the Massachusetts
Youth Soccer, was introduced as the guest speaker. Honestly? A guest speaker? I was coaching a group of seven and eight year olds! I just wanted my gear so I could go – I
had a surgery the next day. Being
polite, I feigned interest as Mike spoke about youth soccer and his many
experiences coaching – from the awkwardly large ten year old who was six inches
taller than him to the college level player who got hurt and lost his
scholarship. My mind half present, a word floated through the air that caught
my attention: pedagogy. This was
starting to feel like a really bad
PD.
Yet,
as Mr. Singleton spoke of pedagogy, comparing soccer to education, to school
and planning, he addressed something that had been stewing in my mind for
years, something I had been unable to articulate and something not enough
people in education are willing to look at. Now, with my rapt attention he continued, “Of the hundreds,
possibly thousands of kids who play soccer here in town,” his demeanor intense
with its honesty and passion, “Only a few, maybe ten, will go on to play
Division I soccer. Maybe one will go on to play
professionally,” he iterated, placing a clear emphasis on the maybe. “But this, I promise you,” his
voice now almost a whisper, “These kids
will become adults. Many of them
will become parents. What we need
to teach them is not how to be the
best soccer player, but how to be the best
people they can be.” Coaching,
suddenly, was not just a “filler” for my lack of running. It was a sacred act.
There
are many forms of success.
-
- -
Thirty
yards from the far shore, Cooper started to tire. I started to
panic. I offered words of encouragement, focusing to keep my tone calm and
collected. This was the moment I had
gravely feared. My mind’s eye
showed my son sinking below me, me struggling to save him. I became acutely aware of every little
movement Jacoby made on my back, sure that he, too, would fall and sink like a
rock. Cooper grabbed my arm and
clung on, his little legs losing their strength below the surface. I pushed toward shore, my heart
pounding from fear, carrying both boys, desperate to get out of this situation,
until he said, “NO! I just need a little break.” Jacoby added, “This is fun.” The
fear and grim fate I imagined did not exist for them. We tread water for the longest thirty seconds of my life,
and then, my two boys finished their swim across Walden Pond.
As
a child, I never had the chutzpah to do something like this, to confidently advance
in the direction of my dreams. My
successes were visible in athletic trophies and rankings, academic grades,
gainful employment. But always was
that sense of, “Can I really do
this?” sounding in the deepest recesses of my subconscious. Perhaps it was that day on the steps,
when I understood my mortality, but I was never willing to push myself to the
absolute edge of potential. It wasn’t
until my senior year of college that I rode a roller coaster, until my 34th
year of life that I went cliff jumping.
Even today, as a teacher and athlete, I continually question if I’m
“doing it right” or “doing enough.”
When
my sons, who, by any reasonable account were much too young for the risks and, all too real, consequences this swim across Walden Pond entailed, first told me
they were going to do it, I balked.
Yet, perhaps for the spirit of Thoreau that pervades this place, we
swam. By embracing their goals and dismissing my fears, their challenges, their dreams
were made my own. They
accomplished something that, for them, was truly epic. Reaching the far side my heart swelled
with pride. Not at their
accomplishment, but at the sheer audacity of action and willingness to push the
limits of what they, and I, deemed possible. It was this summer day, a clear day, blue sky, the woody smell
of Walden Pond deepened by the heat, that my sons gained a true education. It’s
an education that in most ways can only be known to ourselves, an education
that, when gained, produces an inner strength of character that allows one to
advance toward dreams with a confidence “unexpected in common hours.” I wish
for them to continue seeking, and I strive (and struggle) to replicate this
education, this success, inside the confines of my classroom. Years after that lonely night walking
down the beach in Florida, as Cooper and Jacoby lay panting on the far shore of
Walden Pond, veritably glowing with pride and accomplishment, I felt what Grandpa Barney’s words meant.
There
are many forms of success. Grandpa Barney realized that the ones that really
matter are the ones that people may never know you’ve achieved.
The life which men praise and regard as
successful is but one kind. Why
should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?
- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
