This Run Isn't Going To Change Your Life
On keeping going.
The problem with running is that you can get carried away with what it all means. At least I can.
When actually it means nothing at all.
Or you can get trapped in an unhealthy reward cycle where momentary pleasures make you forget about everything you still have to do.
There’s a certain ambiguity I struggle with in running and in life. It can probably be summed up by a simple question you’ve no doubt asked yourself.
What’s the fucking point?
Here I am, trying to write a newsletter about running, and for what? Why don’t I just go for a run instead of trying to gut meaning from it all the time?
And why even run in the first place?
I wish I knew.
What good does it do, running or writing, when any joy you feel is temporary and never enough?
As I’ve said before, I know there’ll never be a point where I think right, that was It. That’s the thing I’ve been striving for all this time, and now I’m done.
If I don’t have these clear and unequivocal goals, this place I’m trying to reach where I’ll be happy with it all, then why bother?
This is all rhetorical, of course. Not everything has a distinct purpose or end. Some things are frivolous and pointless and that’s ok. Maybe the best things are.
But when faced with things that are more certain or necessary, like paying bills, or standing in front of an expectant class, or trying to make sure your sons turn out better than you, the other stuff becomes a bit harder to justify.
When I look back at my life, I think I’ve always carried an obscure sense of loss.
It’s been an endless search, only I’ve no idea what I’m looking for. It’s led me to behaviours that have been both destructive and distracting. Things that lie somewhere between penance and self-sabotage.
I always thought running was a part solution to this, but lately I’ve wondered if it might just be another distraction.
Maybe these feelings are all totally normal, and maybe they aren’t.
There’s a poem I teach. It’s called The Circle and it’s by Don Paterson. It’s about the mistakes we make searching for perfection, and about how it’s an impossible goal. We must accept imperfection.
Don’t dwell on your mistakes, it instructs us. Just keep moving and put your trust in something, anything.
Easier said than done.
But Jamie, nothing’s what we meant.
The dream is taxed. We all resent
the quarter bled off by the dark
between the bowstring and the mark
From The Circle by Don Paterson
I teach this poem to seniors, pupils who are just about to lift their anchors and sail steadily towards uncertain horizons. They’re doing it right now.
I try not to put too much emphasis on the fact it’ll be more like having their lines hacked free and being set adrift. And I don’t say that some of them will never catch sight of shore again.
It’s a fragile time, and I still remember the sense of blurred purpose I felt at this stage, mostly because I still feel it.
And so I tell them what I wish someone had told me, but what I never could have understood, and what I’m still trying to.
It’s never too late. You can do anything at all, just understand it might not happen right away.
For all but a few, it’s impossible to understand this. You can’t expect them to have any perspective of what’s to come.
But it’s still worth saying, because I wish someone could have helped me to understand it.
My whole life was spent in hyperawareness of time that had passed. I was too old, too late, not good enough. I was consumed by thoughts of things I hadn’t done yet, trapped by the past and paralysed in the now. It’s partly why I’ve always detested my birthday. What is there to celebrate? It’s just a mark of more things undone.
I’m better now, partly. But most days I still think about opportunities missed, things I wish I’d started sooner, times I should’ve worked harder. I’m sure everyone thinks like this.
Most days I still wonder if I’ll reach a place where I feel like I’ve done anything worthwhile with my time.
In lighter moments, like when I’m running alone, I can appreciate that every footfall is symbolic of gifts of health and place, and that each takes me home to a family I love.
But still, there’s lingering doubt. Still I’m not sure if this is all or enough. And maybe this is how everyone feels and maybe it isn’t. I don’t know that either.
And so I try to just keep going, to heed my own advice and have faith that it’s not too late. Something will happen that makes me feel less purposeless and adrift. And I might not know when, where or how, but I’m sure I’ll recognise it when I see it.
But there’s no magic bullet. It’s about work, and keeping moving.
To use running as a clumsy metaphor - everything begins with short steps, but remember that one run isn’t going to make a difference.
I’ve got a mantra for running. I usually need it when running is the only thing I can think to do.
This run isn’t going to change your life, I tell myself.
It’s about grounding, and reminding myself not to get carried away. I’m prone to reverie when I run. I think it’s the main reason I do it. Because for a few short moments I’m suspended in a deep state of bliss like I’m in amniotic fluid, not thinking of anything.
But this is a dangerous place to be. It’s more anaesthetised than protected. In this state I might feel like I have no-where left to go, and this couldn’t be further from the truth.
So I need to bring myself down, and recognise when I’m using running as a shield. Or perhaps a mask. I need the awareness that I’ve not done anything at all.
And so I remind myself that I’m just out for a fucking run, and there’s plenty of work to do.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
and wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.
From Keeping Going by Seamus Heaney
nice one jp! i relate to your writing so much ;-;