Litany of the Moment

Last night I suffered my first true glycogen crash during exercise. The evening started normally. I planned to do a mini triathlon, but not in the preordained order of swim, bike, run. I was to start with a 10K appetizer (about 6.2 miles to those not down with the lingo). The main course was going to be a half mile swim. It’s in a 25 meter pool, so that is a lot of laps, but swimming at night is a true avenue to peace and relaxation and I encourage you to indulge if you have not experienced it. The workout was to be topped off with a luscious dessert; a twenty mile bike ride beneath the light of the moon. Something happened, and things did not go as planned. The 10K became 10 miles….the half mile swim became a full mile….the bike….well, my sugar crashed and I could hardly walk let alone peddle after only two miles. It was a frightening experience, but fascinating at the same time. My legs turned to jello and I had brutal shakes throughout my body. I imagine marathon runners and triathletes have all experienced this in one form or another. Only I am neither a marathoner nor a triathlete. In fact, I am not training for any particular race at all...

Fast forward to the following day. I had my midyear review this morning with my boss. It started as they always do with him asking about my evening. I told him a variation of the history written above. He laughed and said I was crazy. I assured him I was not crazy, and tried to explain why I push myself. I have written the 'why' in a previous post, but he interrupted and was not so interested in why, but how. I am not a world class athlete. I am not going to win any medals or find myself on the side of a Wheaties box. I don’t know the first thing about how true professional runners, swimmers, etc. mentally prepare themselves for their races. But I do know that I have not worn a watch in almost ten years, and it is that simple fact that allows me to push myself unto the brink.

I have had an ‘on again, off again’ relationship with serious exercise for years. I will ramp up my running and lifting for two or three months, and then fall off the wagon. Overtraining almost always the loose railroad tie that knocked the fitness train off the tracks. I would not ease into the fitness regiment. I would come out of the gates at a sprint. When I would lift or run I would try mind games to push myself harder and faster; an internal conversation that was meant as a personal challenge.

“If you quit, you fail…not just at this run, but at everything. Are you weak? Do you want to fail? Are you that pathetic? If you don’t keep going everyone will leave you. If you stop now, everyone will hate you! If you don’t finish this rep you don’t deserve to be happy. Everyone is watching Brandon, you can quit, but everyone will see and they will know you were not strong enough...you were not good enough. Go ahead and quit…you're no wolf, your just another sheep!"

This type of “self-motivation” did far more damage than good. Sure, I would finish my long runs and heavy lifts, but I would return mentally and emotionally exhausted. Sometimes I would not be able to get that last repetition, and would feel terrible as a result. Did the threats of my prodding mind ever come to pass? Of course not, but the damage was done, and within a few short months I would need to step away. Mentally, emotionally and physically abused and exhausted.

Everything changed this spring when I attacked physical training yet again. I took a different approach this time. I started from a new angle: sleep and food. I took time each night to find peace in preparing a healthy meal, enjoying it, and getting a full night’s sleep. Not surprisingly my energy increased and after a few weeks I had to return to intense exercise just to burn off the excess fuel. Returning to the gym is always a humiliating experience. You are slower, weaker, less toned and less confident than you were the last time you were serious. So much has been lost you wonder how you will ever get back to where you were. It is very easy to get disheartened at this point and quit. But I kept at it with the cooking and sleeping, I added in some meditation and stretching to maintain peace and focus, and the strength and cardio rapidly returned to a comfortable position. But I wanted to go further, to push harder, and without the psychological abuse I would put myself through in the past.

Enter ‘The Litany of the Moment.’ I don’t know when I started to repeat this simple mantra to myself, but once I did, I quite literally found my 'happy place.' A center, a driving core that could run further, swim longer, lift more, than I ever had previously. It takes a while to set in. The first few exercises, or miles in a run are always a struggle. But the voice within won’t let me think about things like, ‘God my legs hurt. I can’t get enough air. My arms are tightening up. I should just stop. I didn’t eat enough for lunch, and I didn't sleep enough.’ These 'quitting statements' are drowned out by a commanding voice that asks the same question again and again.

Where are you?

At first I ignore it. Or at least I try to. I try to focus on the pain, the surroundings, the music in my headphones…

Where are you?

I can hear my feet hitting the ground. I can smell the iron of the gym. I can taste salt as the sweat from my brow passes the corner of my lips….

Where are you?

I am at the gym. I am outside. I am running on this path…what do you mean where am I?

Where are you?

I’m here.

The first stage is complete. I have let go of my surroundings, I have let go of the presence of the road or the gym or the water. I am simply ‘here.’ But the voice continues….and it is relentless.

What time is it?

I don’t know. I don’t wear a watch.

What time is it?

It’s before dawn…It’s almost midnight….It’s almost time for dinner….

What time is it?

Now?....Yes, it is now.

Stage two is complete. It’s tough to explain the sensation that comes with this, but I stop feeling pain. I stop thinking about the weights or the road or much of anything. It is almost as if I am simply existing in empty space. I am here…it is now…there is nothing else. But I am still moving…

Where are you going?

There.

Where is there?

One step beyond here.

How do you get there?

By moving forward. I must keep moving forward!

I stop feeling time at this point. I stop seeing much of my surroundings or hearing the birds or the people or much of anything. I can hear my breath. I can hear my heartbeat. I can feel heat on my skin, but I am here. I am now. I am moving forward from here to there.

What are you?

I am strong. I am a man. I am Brandon…

What are you?

I am me. I am I. I am alive…

What are you?

Clear…present….focused…one with this moment.

The run passes. The swim passes. The bike…well the bike reminds me that I am human and no matter the number of mind games I play on myself I still need to better prepare for such a long workout. I still need to eat more food and get a bit more rest. However, sitting on the sidewalk, unable to walk and shaking with plummeting blood sugar, I can only sit and marvel at the power of the mind over the body. I was one. I was calm. I was present. I was moving through space, leaping, striding, walking from one moment to the next. There was no past, there was no future. There was only here, now and the step that will take me into the next moment.

I am going on seven months now of intense exercise six days a week. This is far beyond anything I ever dreamed of in my many attempts at fitness. I am not exhausted. Quite the contrary in fact. I am more at peace and have found an inner harmony hitherto unimagined. When my boss asked, ‘How do you do it? Is it discipline or just masochistic tendencies?’ I told him, ‘It’s the Litany of the Moment.’ What’s that? ‘I’m not sure I can explain it right now, but it drives me to excel, it encourages me to succeed, and it helps me keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other…again….and again….and again….’

The List

I am not a man to hold a grudge. When I was younger I could clasp anger close to my chest and never let it go. I would stand on my little podium of pride, wagging my finger in the face of life saying, 'forgive, but never forget.' Walking through fire cured me of this affliction. Life, like a slow-roasting crock pot, cooked away my ability and desire to hold enmity. When people fight, invariably both combatants will emerge from the battle bruised, battered and bleeding. Sometimes we are cut so deep that the confrontation leaves scars that far outstrip the cause or severity of the fight. Most of the time I think people would rather 'forgive and forget;' they would prefer to keep the bridges into their lives open. A grudge keeps the bridge open, but in the same way bridges are open in a military state. Roads and causeways replete with guard towers, riflemen and snarling vicious war dogs. I know people joke about having a 'List.' If someone cuts you off in traffic an appropriate response would be, 'Son of a....that's it, that guy is going on The List!' It's fun, it's silly, but I really do not believe that people keep a little red book of grudges right next to their little black book of phone numbers.

I would like you to take a little stroll back in time with me. A little over a week ago, on a bright Monday morning, Brandon is giving a presentation. The sun is shining, the conference room is packed, and I am assaulting the senses with a true multimedia display. Drawing upon the usual arsenal of powerpoint, visual aids, a short video and my bread 'n' butter, the white board. I am moving to and fro, hither and thither, and the presentation is going incredibly well. I am an animated public speaker so I tend to move quite a bit as I talk. I use my hands, I engage the crowd, and I tend to saunter from one side of the room to the other.

Everything is going swimmingly, but there is some noise coming from the nearby labs, so I turn and close the door. I don't watch the door close, but I hear the latch click and continue on with the presentation. It is important to understand that this door opens towards the white board. When fully open it actually covers a few feet of the white board, and I am drawing on the entirety of my corporate tapestry this day. The presentation is drawing to close, I am moving from one end of the white board to the other...backing up while speaking, gesturing to what has been written over the past hour, talking, sharing, pointing out key items...still backing up, then I turn to make one final point and BAM! By some strange twist of fate the door has managed to open itself. It's almost like a saw blade, and it lines me up with the precision of a carpenter. From nose to chin to sternum to groin I walk into this door and the sound of the impact rings loud and clear throughout the room. There is a pause...a drawing of breath, then all gathered burst into hysterics. I laugh too, because at that point there is little else that one can do. I regain my composure, make a few closing comments and the remainder of the day passes without incident.

Walk with me a short distance into the future. We are now at yesterday afternoon in the same room, with the same white board, just a different presentation. A few of the people in attendance make a few jokes at my expense before I begin because they witnessed my last unintentional foray into physical slapstick humor. I laugh, they laugh, and the presentation begins. I make a point to actually close the door completely, feel the latch catch, and I place a small garbage can in front of the closed door, partly for the amusement of the audience, and partly to make sure I don't have a repeat performance.

I start to speak, and write and present as I have a hundred times before. Halfway into the presentation time slows. I am sure if I was watching the clock on the wall I would have watched the ever-marching second hand gradually slow and eventually grind to a halt. Backing from one end of the white board to another, a member in the audience asks a question about something I had written on section of the board which would have been covered by the door (IF it were open that is). I am happy to answer the question and turn quickly towards where the door WOULD have been if it were open. I plan to point out the data the question is referring to just to make sure everyone is on the same page. I shift my weight, I pivot, and to my horror The Door is waiting for me...again.

I have been in fights in the past. I have been punched, kicked and elbowed. But I have never been hit as hard as this door hit me. From the apex of my legs to the crest of my brow I slam, with force, into this tormentor. Flesh and bone and blood collide with wood and steel and gloss. Losing my composure for a moment I swear loudly, stagger a bit, and then turn to see tears streaming from the eyes of my audience. One man, who I shall simply refer to as Upper Management tries to speak, 'Brandon....anytime I think I am having....a bad...day...I will just....think....' He trails off here, unable to speak for lack of oxygen. He is simply laughing too hard.

There are wicked and macabre forces at work here. I know that this door; this vile wretched baleful door was not guided by the hands of God. If god wanted to teach me humility he would have been far less subtle; a flood, a lightning strike, or at the bare minimum, a little fire and brimstone. No, this was the work of some cruel antagonist. Did someone feed Gizmo after midnight? Does this door, this dark malevolent slab of wood, sit atop a long forgotten burial mound? I don’t care what power drives it, or what force created it. This door has drawn first blood…twice! I don’t hold grudges, but then again I never really had a reason...until now. I have met my nemesis. Building F, room 5404, large wooden door…welcome to The List my now and future foe. Tremble in fear because you have neither the will, nor the opposable thumbs to win this war.

On a side note, I did launch a large number of April Fool’s pranks this past year. Part of me wonders if this is some form of cosmic retribution…no, this is between me and The Door…watch for the final showdown on pay-per-view…

Beneath Her Gaze...

Do you fear the night? When you hear a noise in the shadows do you sit motionless, pinned by terror while your heart returns to its metronomic drumming? For as long as I can remember I have refused to let things unseen hold sway over my imagination. I grew up in a home notorious for unexplained noises echoing through the dark. As an only child I spent more than one night alone with little more than the sounds of a chattering home to keep me company. A home whose floorboards cackled, windows whispered and plumbing and heating was a symphony of percussion and banshee wails. I don't know why I always assumed that the sounds from the dark came from the basement or the attic, but I would ball my hands into little fists and go searching for the things that go bump in the night. I would never bring a flashlight...I was always sure surprise would be on my side if I didn't light my way. I would not arm myself, I would not make escape plans, I would simply stride forth into the darkness and see if equal parts youthful courage and brazen stupidity would see me through the ordeal. I never found a beast of darkness. I never tussled with a denizen of the deep, but on more than one occasion I found Her looking down on me...

I no longer go seeking the hushed whispers of the night...at 29 I have long outgrown that age. What was once a quest to challenge the fiends that disturbed my rest has become something far more subdued and peaceful; late night walks. I often take walks well after midnight along wooded paths and across grass fields. The sounds of the night are still there and beneath the umbrage of stars I find that simple things like trees, bushes or a ripple in the water can still appear fearsome. But while walking last night my eyes were drawn to the sky and again, just as it was so long ago, She was watching. I stopped in my tracks. I could not move. I could not look away. Caught in a near trance I just stood and stared at that singular white jewel in the night's sky; She…Her…My beloved mistress, La Luna, gazing down on me as she has all my life.

I can recall times as far back as age 9 when I would be struck by Her presence. I would be standing one moment, and the next I would be laying on my back, eyes sky bound. I would drift and I would dream and after a time I would come back to my senses and continue on. I have even come to give a sign of respect to that lunar body...I kiss the palm of my right hand, I close the hand into a gentle fist, bring the fist to my heart, open the hand and offer it up, palm wide and full with the offering of the kiss, the heart and the hand to She that is above. I will confess I only do this when I am alone. A casual observer would probably think me strange, but when I am alone I am not ashamed of my passion. When I am alone I am not afraid to share it. And She never passes judgment when the romantic takes hold of me in the dark.

The light of Her gaze has cut through every darkness in my life, though it is not always a healing light. It is often cold and distant and alien, but it can wrap you in tendrils of blue and grey and white and embrace you in dreams of joy and wonder. Those years when I closed my windows, shut my eyes and removed myself from Her sight were the most trying times of my life. I feel a peace and oneness in the light of the moon. I feel whole. I feel complete. I imagine it is very much like being in love.

I wonder if that is true. When do people know when they are in love? Is it a gradual shift from friend to partner...from partner to lover...from lover to one true love? Do people know when it changes? Can they feel it? I think the day I can walk beneath Her gaze, hand-in-hand with a woman and not feel that soft white light, then I will know I am in love. When the seductive mistress of the night's sky tempts and calls and beckons, and yet I am not pinned to the ground in awe and reverence, I will know I am in love. I wonder if She will mourn the loss of Her wolf. Will She feel jealousy as Her alpha child settles with a mate? I think not, for She is timeless and has sent many a wandering hunter on their way. I imagine I will look to the sky one last time to receive that pale kiss upon my brow and then turn to the flesh and blood at my side...the warmth that is, replacing the cold that was. But this day...this night...I still walk and live, stand and fall, struggle and grow, beneath Her gaze. At least someone is watching…

The Dance

People who know me know that I am a dancer. I have been on hiatus for a time, but I still have a passion for ballroom dance. I know why I enjoy the sport. It's a subtle combination of athletic ability, musicality, rhythm, performance and artistry, poise, grace and respect. One can be as serious or as casual as they wish and still derive a lot of joy from dancing. It is still the most enjoyable social activity I have found thus far. I am an inherently social creature, but I am also very physical. What is dance but a conversation between two people that is expressed as much in movement and contact as it is in words?

There is another dance, however, that I have found to be simultaneously a confidence builder and destroyer. It is terrible and joyous, draining and invigorating, humbling and empowering, and at all times, educational. Let me paint a scene. We shall call it 'The Dance - Act I, Scene I.' Two people enter a room. The room is well lit and strangers are present. The pair are well dressed, have taken some time to present themselves favorably, and now stand at opposite ends of the dance floor, scanning to find one another. Their gaze meets and the butterflies begin. This first moment is different for everyone. Some have their heart race, some are assailed by mild nausea, and some have their mouths go dry with fear, while others simply freeze. Personally, I feel tightness across my shoulders, a tension rising through my body, a pressure within my chest and I feel very much the focus of every eye within a thousand yards. Welcome to the first 'step' in The Dance. I am not sure how others deal with first contact, but I take a few breaths, center myself, turn off my thinking mind and turn my instinct dial to maximum volume. I move forward. I feel the situation, I don’t think about it, and I walk forward with confidence, seeking the middle of the dance floor.

This is where things become interesting. Your partner approaches, they stand within arms reach and there is an uncomfortable moment where the truth settles on both of you like a fine mist. You begin to realize just how complicated this dance is going to be, and chances are the butterflies might return for an unwelcome encore.

You both speak English...but very different dialects. You both know how to dance, but your skill level may vary and you don't know the same dances. You both hear music...but you can't hear what the other person is listening to. Despite these barriers, you raise your hand slowly and invite your partner to do the same. You take a respectful dance position; take a moment to calm your nerves, and then you try to dance. Sometimes the first few steps are fluid. They are clear, direct and your partner follows your lead immediately. You will invariably step on a few toes, go forward when they want to go right, go left when they want to go back, and at all times you will start off dancing to a completely different beat. Have you figured it out yet? Do you know this dance? If you have ever dated, you know this dance well.

People can find their way through this process. They can navigate the dance floor, find steps that don't match either partner's style, but are new....because they invented them together. Out of the awkward moments of the initial steps they begin to form their own movements, their own song, and their own rhythm. Where once there were bruised feet and teetering erratic movements, there are now graceful strides that flow seamlessly into turns, dips and beautiful orchestrated drama. This new dance does not happen on that first date, or the second. This dance, which could almost seem choreographed to a casual onlooker, is one of growth and evolution. A perfect manifestation of chemistry, love and harmony. But those first steps can be a trial for even the most accomplished dancers or the best matched pair. I think if people can find themselves moving as one and conversing in a mixed dialect only a few hours after meeting, then they ought to consider themselves fortunate. Their feet just might remain unharmed, their butterflies well worth the discomfort, and their entrance into this great ballroom, this venue, this Dance....well, it was probably worth the effort and the wait.

Many of us are still dancing...but we must not lose hope. I see friends and family that have found their partners. Couples that have written their own music, made their own language, and created their own dances. These people inspire and encourage, and it is because of them that people such as I keep dancing. They stand as shimmering proof that the challenge of The Dance is worth it...even if we break a few toes in the process.