Voices

August 26, 2019

Greetings from the prompt,

There have been several important experiences in my life where, afterwards, I would think to myself: “How can I hold on to this?  What can I do to keep the magic, the change in me, and apply it in the rest of my life in a meaningful way?”  That sounds so formal and stiff, but after trying a number of times, it’s as close as I can say this morning.    

I’ll admit I sometimes expected more dramatic, or more obvious evidence of my life lessons.  But it turns out that many times what lasts longest from the mountaintop experiences is often so small it can be missed.  It is often as subtle as a whisper.  The impact however is more profound, I think.

Imagine you are an actor on stage, with no idea what the play is about.  You are doing your best to seem like you fit in the scene, but without knowing what the story is, it feels awkward and awful.  And sometimes there is a voice in the wings, there just off stage, whispering your lines to you.  You listen because you don’t know what else to do, you need direction, maybe desperately.  Whatever the voice says you cling to and try to make sense of what is happening.

You also listen because the voice is so familiar, because it is almost always your own.

I find myself drawn to people who are returning from their own mountaintop experiences, to see how they make the transition from being inspired to living inspired.  How will they now walk through life holding on to the change in them?  What do they practice to ensure that the lesson is not diluted by the steady deluge of ordinary life?  I have friends who have travelled as missionaries, others who have battled cancer, some who rode their bicycles across the country, ran ultramarathons, a few who have failed hugely and started over.  How do they keep the magic in their lives?

No one can say exactly.  It’s not like it’s repeating a mantra, or creating a discipline, or something so overt as that.  The lessons that stay with us are these strands that are woven into our subconscious, maybe just below the everyday operations.  They show up in what the voice tells us, the one there just off stage waiting to see if we forget our lines.

When my daughter Katherine came back from a bike tour I asked her what it was like traveling with sometimes five other guys, trying to figure out the dynamics of how fast to ride, when to eat, stopping for the day.  She said “Being accommodating is a strength.  Compromise is a skill.”  I don’t know if she says those words out loud, but I like how she makes it a part of her life, still.

One of the constants I hear from people who are molding a life lesson is the way that time passes differently when you are fully present an experience.  Challenging yourself in an ashram, climbing a mountain peak, running a hundred miles, immersing yourself in Colombia for a year, caring for a dying spouse, recovering from a near death accident.  And that lesson carries into playing with children on the floor, loving someone, learning to play an instrument, creating something, making a new friend, writing an essay at five a.m. on a Monday.

Many years ago, my son Harrison spent a weekend working with kids in Special Olympics.  When he left, he was a kind, empathetic twelve-year-old.  When he came back, he was that same person, but his voice said: “Man, I can’t believe anyone would make fun of someone just because they have an extra chromosome.”  I’m telling you today he still hears that voice.

The other thing I know is that sometimes there is a voice, still ours, that does not respect the lessons we care about.  It is the voice of some lesser self, still us, but not who we aspire to, not who we hope for.  Not the voice of the person we promised ourselves we would be.

There is a place in the marathon where the voices come in to contend with the challenge I am experiencing.  There is one voice that suggests that I give up, make some excuses, even tries them out with me.  ‘Here’s what you can say to people after you fail.  See? That sounds reasonable.’  The part of me that is afraid, unsure, that doesn’t remember the lessons, sometimes gets to speak to me too.  The lesson here I have learned the hard way.  Don’t listen to the voice that tells you to fail.

A couple of days ago I ran a race, a course I have competed on for 38 years.  I wasn’t sure what to expect from my body, even though the conditions were good.  When I went through the first mile, I knew it would be a day to celebrate; I felt full of life and passion.  When the ninth mile came so did the other voice, the one that said I should coast, that maybe the scouring I was feeling in my lungs was a sign that my running days are over.

The lesson I remembered then was this: “Don’t listen to the voice that tells you to fail.”  I learned it at the top of Trail Ridge Pass, at the 21 mile mark of Boston, when I stood to tell a Moth story, when I wrote the first words at the top of this page. 

Listen for the voice that brings you the lessons you wanted to live by.  They are not always dramatic or world changing, they are the light that makes your life one shade brighter, one moment closer to your best self.  What we were intended for. 

This morning I stood on my deck, just before it got light, and let the voice come.  These are not merely aphorisms, not just mental memes to be flipped past and forgotten.  Like you I have lessons that I care about, the ones that I want to listen to.  The voice said:

“You better bring it.  Before you flip someone off in traffic, assume you will meet them later in the day.  Don’t judge a run by the first mile. Ask someone what the best part of their day was.  Be remembered for being fair.  Listen to people before you guess what they care about.  Never underestimate the day.”

Hope this finds you listening,

David