Joie de vivre

I woke this morning with the scent of living things and the faint sunrise lifting over the little lake across the street.  It was beautifully inspiring.  Somewhere between sipping my coffee and nibbling on bites of granola, I decided that both my dog and I are getting fat.  Noticeably so.  The cool air beckoned me to run again.  So I laced up my running shoes, threw on an oversized sweatshirt, and coaxed the lab (who now looks like a sausage link) out the door.

It was an easy run down a quiet morning street.  I expected more rush hour traffic, but only two cars passed by us while we jogged towards the downtown corridor.  Somewhere along the way, I reminded myself that I am, for my age, in great shape.  On a whim, I can gather myself up and pound out a few miles outdoors.  I have a great range of flexibility.  This goes for both my physical flexibility and my life in general.

Lately, there's been a lot of chatter about my busy schedule -- between teaching writing, exercise classes, children's activities, paper grading, grad school applications, friends and family events, and so on.  The schedule overload has been mentioned by friends, but the loudest has been my mother.

"Maybe it's my age. When I was younger, I expect my life was hectic much like yours" she says.
"But now it seems like you're overwhelmingly busy....to me."

I responded with what I tell everyone:  I am lucky.  I have the opportunity to do what I love.  Whether it be motivating them to write or motivating them to move, I spend my waking hours helping people. I live through the moment to moment mantra that "the most important person is the one you are with right now."  So if I'm tutoring someone, it is that student.  If I'm with my children, it is their moment to shine.  If I am with my friend, he or she is the most important person.  If I am alone, then it is me.  It is the moment to take care of myself.  I love living that kind of life. There could be worse things.

I thought of my friend who vacillates in and out of this mode of just waiting for death.  It is a precarious place to dabble.  He spends nights filled with anxiety and mornings trudging through bouts of pain.  I worry that the more he falls deeper into that realm of thinking, the harder it will be for him to climb out once again.  He typically dwells there for a day or two and remerges from the funk with a renewed self.  I wonder, as I grow older, if it will be the same for me.  The pain and thoughts of mortality could override my rose-colored view of things.  I hate to be in that place.  I hate to see others worry so much, especially someone like him, who seems to defy age and gives the middle finger to social graces and the "normal" life.   I am saddened when he feels like giving up.  I think of Bill Murray (see here), who is a lot like this friend of mine.  They are artists that do things that are out of the ordinary.  Their collective happiness does not rest in the idea of pleasing others.  They live outside the lines.

I thought of the man I helped tutor yesterday who has tremors in his left hand and is stuck in a wheelchair.  He has difficulty even typing his name.  I held doors for him. I walked patiently with him to the elevator in the library, since he can't climb the stairs.  I waited for him to enter his personal information three times before the college system worked.  I retrieved his documents from the printer.  In the moment, I thought of my own physical faults - the clusters varicose veins, the way may stomach now puckers around my navel when I crouch over, the speckling of fat across my thighs -- and how minor those things are in comparison to the handicaps, the limited movement, the lack of intellect some may be forced to endure.

I returned from my run -- and although I had to disinfect my hands from carrying around a bag of dog shit,  I felt like it was a decent pace.  I even powered through the 7 minute workout my friend had shared from a New York Times article.  I did the advanced version with such joie de vivre...after all, it's only 7 minutes.

Then I read about my friend's decent into the idea that life is not forever. The anxiety and pain.  What good does it do to dwell on what is? What good is it to think that nobody would want to love him, take care of him, as if he were a chore?  I am not sure if human beings should be so focused on death.  It is about the living and what we are capable of doing, even if all we are capable of is just a stroll on a beautiful morning.  It is the living that is beautiful.