Today's Run

This morning's run was fantastic!

Having just quit my misery-inducing part-time job, this has turned into a quiet week with much more free time than usual. So perhaps the fact that I eventually skipped out the front door with positive spring in my step can be attributed to a leisurely sleep-in, finally finishing an acquaintance's self-published novel (an act of discipline) and a later-than-usual starting time of 9:30am.

I entered running-Zen-state very quickly, even before reaching the end of my street - unprecedented! Feet flying, nothing perturbed me: not the sight of a bearded pedestrian walking backwards to pluck a rosehip from a bush and peel it; nor the very strange looks an elderly couple gave me as I, red-faced and dripping, overtook them on a steep incline; nor even by the fact that my heart rate monitor decided my pulse rate was 83bpm (cool! ... I wish) then 200bpm (which wouldn't be cool at all, at least not until rigor mortis had set in).

Spending such a long time in running-Zen-state reminded me of Murakami's writings about the joys thereof. My mind rummaged through the memory of reading his book. Memory is fickle, but I think he claimed in "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" not to have sustained any serious injuries during his running career; does this mean he is somehow physically especially suited to the sport? Anyone looking at me could tell I'm not physically suited to it, so am I putting myself at risk? My mind skips forward. When am I going to commit to running a long course 'in public', i.e. in a race? I'm not particularly interested in beating other people, but perhaps the challenge would be fun. Or would everyone else just get in the road? Another leap, backward in memory this time, as the wet weather, mud, scent of decomposing leaves and sight of mossy tree trunks takes me back to the creek of my childhood. Would I have been capable of imagining this future me back then? Certainly not.

I was enjoying such a good run I thought I'd tack an extra loop onto the end. "This will take me over the hour mark," I thought. But no - even with the extra kilometre or so, I still arrived home in under 55 minutes. Time to change routes ... again.

And, as I jog down the driveway and hit "stop" on the monitor, it's time to revel in the endorphin high; to stretch; to shower; to relish my freedom, and the privilege of being able to enjoy such a great start to the day. I am most fortunate.

On Memoirs and Motivation

Last night in bed, I was thinking about what I'd written yesterday, all those reasons I love running. I remembered reading "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" (Haruki Murakami, English publication 2008) and the joy which came from hearing my own heart's delight echoed in Murakami's reflections.

I was very lucky to have picked up that book when I did; one of my sisters had given it to me a few months earlier, and it had sat on my To Read pile for a while. The timing was fortunate because I'd just finished Anna Goldsworthy's "Piano Lessons".

Goldsworthy's book is another memoir, of her piano lessons with an extraordinary teacher. A musical friend had gushed at the evocative language she used, and Goldsworthy certainly has a way with words; I wish I had the book in front of me to provide examples - but I wouldn't trust my memory to do her justice! It certainly was a very well written book, about music, obsession, achievement, anxiety, and the life-giving relationship it's possible to have with a fantastic mentor.

Perhaps those are the reasons that, while I was reading it, I kept thinking: "This is the most wonderful book I've read in ages! She speaks to my condition, my passion, my loves. This one's going on the Favourites list."

But after I'd finished reading and in the days following, I noticed a dip in my mood. I found myself looking at my life and noticing the shortfalls between its reality and the idealized version in my head; instead of finding this amusing, the gap seemed to loom large; it grated. Thankfully, at this point I picked up Murakami's book, and the cause of my malaise was made clear.

It comes down to motivation. Both Murakami and Goldsworthy are driven by obsession ... but what is fuelling their obsession? They are both passionate ... but wherein lies the roots of that passion?

Clearly, having met neither of these people (though I wish I could!), what I am about to say is predicated only on their writings - i.e. highly constructed versions of themselves; and my response to it - necessarily idiosyncratic. But after reading Murakami I felt uplifted, alive, motivated to go out and do more of the things I loved. After reading Goldsworthy I found myself measuring my life's achievements against hers and thinking, "We're two women of roughly the same age, with roughly the same background (private-school education in Adelaide, doctor fathers) and interests (music, academia); how did her life turn out so differently to mine?"

I wonder whether the difference lies in the locus of their motivation - Murakami: internal, Goldsworthy: external? Or whether their goals in pursuing their passions were different; one of my favourite psychologists comes to mind again (Edward Deci) and his writings about motivation which I mentioned briefly in a previous blog. Murakami's obsession is perhaps focussed more on process, Goldsworthy's on ends; Murakami's on living/"being" the good life, Goldsworthy's on "doing" the good life ... if that makes sense.

Having been a devout Christian, and pondering my reactions, the words of Matthew 7:16 come to mind ("By their fruits shall ye know them ..."). I guess the bottom line is this: I read two excellent memoirs; one left me feeling flat and focussed on real or imagined deficits in my life, the other left me feeling uplifted and encouraged me in my pursuit of "more than ordinary moment[s] of existence" (Robert Henri).

Thank you, Murakami, for nurturing the desire for The Good Life within me.