The older I get, the harder it is to remember how old I am. I can remember the year I was born; it happens to be a nice round number. But it’s the age. How old am I? That’s the hard part, but honestly, not because the age thing bothers me all that much (yet). I still feel like I can do a lot. But the question is, how much? Coming to terms with my limitations is the rub.
Of course, there’s the limitation of intelligence. I’m just not as smart as I’d like to be. But that was the first ceiling I met a long time ago, and one which is now, after all these years, merely an incredible annoyance rather than a debilitating fear. I’m used to not being smart enough. I’ve found ways to work around that.
The problem with not being talented enough is more distressing, perhaps because it’s a newer realisation. If I had begun trying to live by my talent when I was younger, say in my 20’s when most other artists start, maybe I would have reached some acceptance of that limit by now. But having started late and begun to have this particular sad truth creep up on me like the little cats’ feet of Sandburg’s fog, well, that makes it especially galling. But that’s life now, isn’t it? Although I can’t do much to increase my natural talents, I can at least work hard to make them as honed as possible, and that’s a lot more than many people do. Intelligence and talent…two limitations that bear down on me but, really, those are limitations that bear down on everyone, no matter how smart and talented they may be. You can always be more clever. You can always be more brilliant.
But as I get older there is one limitation that I fear will stop me from achieving all I want to achieve. There is one thing that might actually pull me up short, that I don’t think I can control, that I can’t work around. Sleep – I need lots of it.
There are people on this earth who truly don’t need much sleep. They call themselves “morning people.” They pop out of bed after a meagre five or six hours and are smiling and ready to go. They run ten miles before dawn. They write their 1500 words before breakfast. I try not to be a jealous person, but by God, I am jealous of them. Every morning I pry my eyes open, sheepishly glance at the clock and start my day with the sinking feeling that I’m already late. It’s 8.30. I peer out the curtain and see people already walking to work. Even if they’re drinking their morning coffee as they walk, they’ve already taken their shower, gotten dressed and probably read the paper. But not me. By the time I sit down at my desk it will be after 10.00. Forget about a morning run. Forget about a round of sun salutations.
Okay, I can hear you say, “Stop whinging. Set an alarm for 6.00 and get out if bed like the rest of the world.” We’ll, I have. Through twenty years of child rearing I did just that and it didn’t help. Even if I was awake at six, I’d then collapse back on my bed after the school bus had left. If I didn’t, I’d spend the day with a fuzzy-headed headache and a soured disposition. No, I need more sleep, more than I get even now, and that more than anything, I fear, will be the limitation that dictates what I will or will not do, who I can or can not be.
But I’m reading Haruki Murakami’s memoir called “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” and he makes me think there might be hope, after all. He’s reminded me of the times – usually in the summer — when I did look forward to getting up and out, when the morning run was a siren song instead of a fog horn. He’s made me think that change is possible and reminded me that change comes best through passion.
A person can have two passions at once and if one is mental or emotional while the other is physical, then so much the better. Many people have told me that they envy my passion for writing. “How I wish I had a passion for something like you have.” Generally, I just smile and say, “We’ll yes, I guess I’m lucky.” But I know that’s a lie. Passion has nothing to do with luck. Like everything else worth doing well, it has to do with hard work, commitment and perseverance. My ability to run the marathon of writing a novel doesn’t happen because I passionately want to. It happens because that passion makes me work at it, every day, to the point that the passion becomes not only a desire, but also an identity. Murakami identifies himself as a writer AND a runner, and he practices both passions every day. Because of that, they now feed each other, inform each other, nurture each other. One helps lift the limitations of the other and together they make him more of himself. It’s an important thought worth remembering and taking to heart. It’s even enough to make me want to go out for a run.
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