The Runner: Unwatched

The title of this post may lead the reader to believe it is about running in the absence of onlookers; that is, the freedom to run without being watched. Such freedom is certainly not insignificant, though I think we more often have need of liberation from internal rather than external judgements. However, I was actually referring to a different kind of watch, and it is this watch (the one to do with time) I want to discuss today.

I love wearing a watch. I don’t remember when I got my first watch or when it became a regular staple of my wardrobe, but it’s rare for me to leave my house without it. Why do I wear a watch? It’s hard to avoid a simple answer: I like knowing what time it is. The ability to carry time with you gives off some illusion of control, not the illusion of controlling time but of being able to measure time and control one’s schedule in accordance with it.

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Noise and the Illusion of Control

I often find myself preoccupied by noise. This can be a problem, because our world is saturated with noise in many ways. We rarely can achieve that pure and perfect silence, whether we seek it, or strive to avoid its searching depths. There is almost always something going on in the background. Sometimes they are deliberate sounds, like music, and sometimes they are incidental, intertwined with everyday life. Cars whiz by on nearby roads; drilling slices through the air from the interminable construction work always going on somewhere in the neighbourhood…

There is always noise: people talking, people walking, even the noises that nature imposes on a sterile silence, like birds chattering and wind rustling through trees and rain pricking softly against the slicked black pavement. Here, the words of the Grinch spring to mind (if you’ll pardon the not-yet-seasonal reference): “Noise, noise, noise!”

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The Lost Art of Breathing

Today I want to talk about reclaiming the lost art of breathing. I’m not crazy (or if I am, this isn’t the reason): humans have been breathing, are currently breathing, and will keep on breathing to infinitude (or at least until they die). Oxygen, as everyone knows, is one of our most fundamental needs. How could it ever be possible to “lose” such a necessity, one that is literally woven into the fabric of survival? Breathing is not something that we need to learn or be taught in order to do it “properly.” As newborn infants enter the world, they draw their first breath; it happens naturally; it is a part of their very nature, which must be why we have the expression “as easy as breathing.” How then is it conceivable to label breathing as an art?

I am not using “art” in a literal or restrictive sense of the word (then again, I rarely do). In my conception of it, art can be anything that opens us up to the beauty of the world. Art is not just some external thing; it must possess transcendent power, the power to become a part of ourselves and to lift us above the strict and basest reality of everyday life. I realize this is a broad and rather loose definition of art (can it even be called a definition?), but I think it is an entirely valid (and indeed, necessary) way of looking at art. There are also specific categories of art that can be better defined, shared, and studied (think of literature, music and visual art), but another vital aspect of art is experience. All humans are by nature creative beings. Because we are created by God in His image, we are able to participate in His creativity through our thoughts, our words, our actions, and simply by being. In light of this, we can all be called artists, art can be called life, and the art of living creation. We create because we were created first, and we experience art in our daily life.

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The Runner: In Isolation?

Previously I talked about how, for me, running is a very solitary experience. A lot of good can come from this solitude, from the opportunity to let ourselves be, removed from the regular pressures and distractions of other voices. It is a time in which we can be alone with ourselves, within ourselves, and so turn to this inner life, the inner self, and explore its depth and beauty.

And yet, for the most part, when we run we are not alone. There are exceptions to this- perhaps if you are running on a completely secluded and deserted path, or if you happen to have a treadmill in your house and lock the door (I don’t personally like treadmills, but that is a different story for a different time). However, I don’t think there has been a single occasion in the last couple months when I have gone running and not encountered another person. By this, I don’t mean I’ve run into someone that I know (I have only met a familiar face, in the midst of all my sweaty, heavily panting glory, a small handful of times). Rather, I run past people- strangers– sharing the same path as me. Sometimes I also run on the sidewalk alongside the road and in such cases, cars (presumably filled with people: perhaps strange, perhaps familiar) pass me by.

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Dignity and Dependence

What gives a person value? Although if faced with the question, most of us are unlikely to deny a person at least some measure of innate value, we often deny them this value by our actions, words and thoughts. We make determinations about whether a person is deserving of “respect.” We constantly form internal (or external) judgements, labelling the people we know or even (more frequently) the people we do not, as “bad,” “pathetic,” in some way “less.”

Where do these judgements come from, these evaluations of human worth? Because that is indeed what we are doing: evaluating someone or something. Yet there is an essential distinction to be made here. Evaluating an act, a choice or a set of values is different from evaluating a person. Of course if we neglect or refuse to make this distinction between “right” and “wrong,” we stray down the dangerous path of relativity, defining truth as whatever feels good, rather than Truth with a capital “T.” But while judging an act and deciding that it is not “right” or does not reflect the Truth for which humans were intended holds the person accountable for their actions, it does not strip them of their fundamental dignity.

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The Lost Art of Letter-Writing

Back when we had not “progressed” so far as to make instantaneous communication possible, distance was bridged through the writing and sending of letters. These letters were part of a shared culture that is now unfamiliar and perhaps even foreign to us. Letters were an essential part of life, a part of “being in the world” and engaging in relationship with others. While many of these letters would necessarily have been banal or filled only with the back and forth of practical matters, there are also countless scores of letters that can (and in my opinion, should) be considered works of art.

I have a poetry anthology of Keats that attests to this fact: along with the complete catalogue of Keats’ poems, the book also contains selections from his letters. Thus his personal letters- these documentations of communication- are included as a part of his artistic repertoire. These letters are beautiful and thoughtful pieces, worthy of being read, capable of being meaningfully read despite the fact that they were written for a specific person, and none of us can claim to be this person (if Keats wrote a letter individually addressed to you, then you must be at least 194 years old).

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The Runner and the Arbitrary Line

When we think about running, the thought of the finish line is not far behind. This is because the runner often runs as training, in order to prepare for a race. And in such a race, the route is not self-determined, not set to every runner’s individual preference. Rather, there is a specified starting point and finishing line. And to finish the race, you must cross said line; thus you are running towards a particular destination. This notion of running to meet a specific goal has the potential for utilitarian implications, but that is the subject for a future post. What I’m interested in discussing today is how this idea of the finish line can translate to individual running, to a running that is not goal-oriented.

I have only participated in a couple of races over the course of my life, and none of them recent. There are some things that linger in my mind from these occasions: the mounting tension and excitement before the starting horn, the spirit of camaraderie and the cheering supporters. I have been one of these cheering supporters far more frequently than I have been a runner receiving this support. As a spectator at races in which my father and brother were running, I felt some of the same feelings (though with none of the discomfort or energy expenditure involved in actual running). There were nerves as I waited for a familiar face to appear around the last bend, there was a surge of pride as I watched them cross the finish line. But as I run on my own, often without a watch and not training for anything in particular, is the idea of the race in any way applicable?

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Ebb and Flow

Life does not occur on a level plane. There are inevitable highs and lows. Yet this is what gives to life value, and preserves the sanctity of wonder, joy and beauty, so they are not reduced to a monotonous existence, an impoverished understanding of life. Life has what I might call a natural and necessary ebb and flow. This is evident in the changing seasons of life. There is a circularity in the yearly repetition of special occasions and holidays. However, there is also a singularity to these events: they happen once in the entire cycle of days, and their value would be denigrated if instead they were constantly recurring.

This is true of both the creative and the spiritual life (since the two are inextricably connected). Creative ascent is so named because it involves a movement above the normalcy of life. The creative individual is given this unique ability to transcend his human capacity and earthly height, in order to see from a higher perspective. To me, this sort of miraculous rise (and by miraculous I mean creative or spiritual insight that seems to go beyond the limits or processes of reason) can be compared to the climber’s trek up the mountain.

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The Lost Art of Walking

I am calling this new series (which begins with this post) “The Lost Arts,” because it is about rediscovering the artistry and beauty of simple acts. These are acts we often take for granted or that are merely ordered to other ends. We may do them automatically, without thinking, or we may not even do them at all. Our culture is one that praises fast over slow and more over less, exalting freedom and choice despite expecting conformity and holding in contempt dependence and contemplation.

Although these trends, I think, often cause us to miss what is most beautiful and valuable in life (forsaking what is most beautiful and valuable in ourselves in the process), I believe that we can reclaim this beauty and value. One way this can be done is by focusing on little things (simple pursuits as I mentioned above) and re-seeing them, transforming them into an “art” rather than a meaningless aspect of existence. They are lost, indeed, but not irrevocably so; something which is lost is also something which can be found. It is lost yet not destroyed. Though forgotten, it is still in wait of remembrance.

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The Container of Fear

For me, fear has always been such an omnipresent and unavoidable participant in life. Between fear and love, there is a constant struggle, a struggle that seems as though it will be ever ongoing, never complete, until the ultimate end. And yet, it has been said that “perfect love casts out fear.” I think we all have an idea of what this means, and simply reading the words provides a certain level of comfort. But how far does this “perfect” love extend, and how permanent is this banishment of fear? Is it truly possible to “cast out” fear while in the transient and shifting world, or is it only a promise for another world to come?

I think it can be both, and that there are often unexplored depths to the profound relationship between love and fear. On a first and fundamental level, “perfect love” refers to God. Since God is love, any genuine display of love reveals part of His nature. Because of this, we can turn to Him and in His presence, experience the divine love, the “perfect love” that is stronger than and has no need of fear. This is the only way in which we can truly vanquish fear, or any kind of evil. By placing ourselves in God’s hands, the fear no longer belongs. It is no longer necessary. We can see clearly the distance between lies produced by fear, and Truth. Within these moments of clarity, fear is exposed for its powerlessness.

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