When I was a kid, there was a park near our house that we just called Lake Elizabeth. My parents would take us there to feed the ducks and play. Most afternoons, my mom and my Aunt Gwen would meet up there after my mom got off work and they’d power walk or jog the trail that wrapped around the lake. Each year the city kept expanding the trail. Mile markers with interval training stations dotted the path that was laden with mallards waddling into the reeds upon our approach.
When I first started joining my mom on her jogs, I had a little bike that allowed me to keep up. Some days, if I didn’t feel up to it or if she and my aunt wanted to talk privately, my brother and I would just play on the jungle gym and feed bread crumbs to the ducks until they completed their laps or play tennis until one of us got bored.
Running was never a natural sport for me. I had exercise-induced asthma as a child and I hated the way my chest heaved in painful waves whenever I’d overexert myself. It scared me the way my breath would suddenly revolt and have me panicking for air, wheezing uncontrollably. Each time I thought I was dying. Each time I swore I would never run again. But, I really wanted to be able to say I had accomplished something grand. I wanted my parents to be proud of me.
In hindsight, my parents did not seem to care whether I ran around the lake or not. They weren’t the type of people who aggressively pushed us to do things like that. We had a lot of structure in our house, expectations were clear and goals were put in place for us to reach, but they usually asked us what we wanted before encouraging us in that direction as opposed to making us do a bunch of random things they thought would make them shine. They excelled in a lead-by-example kind of way. I wanted to be like them and I wanted them to like me. They were active people and it just made sense that I would want to be able to complete the task that my parents did so effortlessly. Whether that was reading profusely or running a few miles, I wanted to do it.
I give them lots of credit for the stability and discipline that they instilled in me. They inspired me to want to accomplish things in life out of my own curiosity. I balanced my physical pursuits with mental pursuits. I played the piano for twelve years, volunteered at the hospital, and played varsity sports. Our parents seemed to be on the same page in terms of child-rearing and–for the first ten years of my life anyways–they were very intentional about their methods.
Little by little, I worked my scrawny little legs around that lake. Sometimes I’d give up halfway in, feeling too cold or tired or just in pain. But, I remember the pride I felt the first time I made it around without stopping. At 8 years old, I could finally say I could keep up with the adults. My heart soared and I was all puffed up for the rest of the day telling anyone in my family who would listen. It took lots of starts and stops to be able to get there. There were also times after that when I could not make it all the way around, but it was important that I knew I could.
This early lesson in perseverance and discipline is part of who I am. To complete a goal it takes vision, imagination, drive, and community. I’ve since become a runner, a cyclist, a rower, and a yogi. I’ve hiked, kayaked, sailed, wall-climbed, and done a million other sports. What I find most consistent about the sports I keep on constant rotation throughout my life is that a sharp mind is an integral part of achieving goals. I’ve also learned that there are times when I need to participate in community and, in those moments, I can feel that my presence amongst others allows me to achieve more than when I go it alone.
Nowadays, solitary mornings running the 4.5 mile loop near my house is a lesson in breathwork and mindwork. Commuting on my bicycle through traffic keeps my concentration polished. Morning yoga sequences keep my body limber and strong. Growing means I continue to push for the alignment between body and mind. There is freedom in this alignment. The ability to hit my goals and to be patient with myself on days when just getting outside to stare at dogs in the park means living within a space of gentleness and acceptance for my whole being.
Moving is something I still feel proud about, just like that little 8-year-old at Lake Elizabeth, but moving my emotions, moving my body, and moving my spirit have all become discernable actions filled with intent.
Sometimes, life is really simple like that.
