It’s the cushioning that kills

As I told you the other day, I just devoured and obsessively loved Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.

I loved everything about it. I love that it literally pulled me out my door to run on a Saturday night at 7pm—when I’m a certified, card-carrying, morning runner. I love that I think I’m going to go again tonight. I love that it has made me feel like anything is possible. (When you read what these runners have done (eg. running 100 miles straight across mountains in the dark), you suddenly know that you can make it for a measly ten.)

Most notably, I love that I learned this: cushioning is bad for us. Sounds weird, right? Many instances spring to mind where I would literally beg for a little cushioning—feedback on my writing, the end of a relationship, a pillow when you’re trying to sleep on a plane…I could go on and on.

Killer cushioning…since 1972

Did you know that running shoes, as we know them, were created as recently as 1972. 1972. Remember Chariots of Fire? It looked like those dudes were running in jazz shoes. Go back farther and farther until you get to the people who didn’t even have shoes (or go to remote places today where they still don’t)—they were still running. For sport, for survival, for food and because it feels really, really good. Many of them ran 50, 75, 100′s of miles at a time. Barefoot.

Duh. Of course they did. But in our westernized minds, we think we need fancy cushioned shoes to run. Because that’s what we’ve been told. By these guys:

Phil Knight and Bill Bowerman, Nike’s founders, created the concept of ‘jogging’ and they created a running style that had you reach forward with your leg and hit the ground with your heel first (up to that point, everyone ran by landing on the fat of the midfoot pad with shorter strides). Because there is no natural padding on the heel, you simply couldn’t land on it unless you suddenly had a shoe with a cushioned heel. [Note: read that last sentence again.]

In an astounding marketing move, these two men created a new sport (jogging) that depended on a new way to run (the heel strike), neither of which could exist without their brand new, never before seen, bright and shiny, product.

Excuse my French, but, holy shit.

I read this part of the book five times in a row, my mind churning. How many other ‘cushioned shoes’ have we been sold? And what have they done to our bodies, our minds, our crafts? How else have we cushioned ourselves and therefore deprived ourselves of our true connection to the art and pure love of what it is that we do?

• With the advent of cushioned shoes, running injuries skyrocketed. While they promised to make us go faster.
• With the advent of processed and fast food, obesity and degenerative disease skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives simpler.
• With the advent of marketing schemes, bad writing that is unconnected to heart or soul skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives successful overnight.
• And with the advent of _______ , _______ skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives ______.

Go ahead, fill in the blank. And then kick off those shoes, bring your feet back to your ground…and see what happens.

Image credit: R. Motti

Writing: The view from the ground

This past Saturday, I did something I swore I would never do again.

I ran more than 10 miles. In fact, I ran 11.2.

The swearing was because, nine years ago, I ran a 10 mile road race and hurt myself so badly that I couldn’t walk, let alone run, for several weeks.

But this morning, I ran and I ran and I ran. Nothing hurt, though it was so muggy it was hard to get a full breath, you know, the kind that catches deep in your lungs.

A few things we can deduce from the above: 1) clearly I hold grudges and I’m stubborn as hell about letting them go, when usually I’m the only one being hurt by them; 2) never say never—you just end up with egg on your face.

Running that far (or doing whatever your equivalent of running that far is) is as much a mental test as it is a physical one. I got through my run by balancing the fact that I could stop at any point, with my desire to reach my goal, with my pride, with my fierce competitiveness and with my insistence on winning.

I knew exactly where the 10 mile point would be, and told myself I could stop there. But, instead, I ran all the way home.

The view from the car.

The longest part of the run was around one of my favorite parts of the island, Lambert’s Cove Road. It’s a 4.5 mile, crescent shaped road that curves quickly around and through woods, meadows and old dirt roads that lead to the ocean. I’ve driven it in my car countless times over the last twelve or so years, so I knew it was fairly long and full of fast twists and turns.

But it wasn’t until this morning that I experienced it with my body. And I learned quickly that those curves don’t only go side to side, they also go up and down. None of it was flat.

It’s always nice to have some variation on a run, and none of the ‘ups’ were huge, so it was okay. But I was shocked that I’d never noticed. I was mind-blown by how easy it had been—from the fast, high-level view of the car—to miss the finer points, to miss what it was really like to travel on this road.

On the ground.

Writing a book sounds like fun. So does writing a blog. Or a crafting a speech for a client. Or making enough plates, bowls and mugs to fill your pottery shop. Or starting a webinar series on WordPress design. Or running 11 miles.

The high level view of the pitch (or what it looks like when your brain mulls through your project) is the same as being in the car. Yes, you notice the length of project, you see that there are loops and switch backs, that you have questions. Yes, you can troubleshoot—but it’s not until you start, ’til you get in there and get your fingers sticky and your brains dirty that you see the project for what it really is.

I invite you to really hear that. You won’t know what it really looks like and feels like, what it really takes, until you are knee-deep, neck-deep, (maybe even) in over your head.

And, as such, you must give yourself permission, once you’re in there, to go harder or softer, to stop or persevere, to ask for help.

And, as such, you must also give yourself permission, once you’re in there, to be proud. That even though you didn’t see some of it coming, you kept going.

And, whatever ‘kept going’ looked like for you, it had to have been good. Because it got you here.

Image credit: GElisbeth

How we write: The phases of the writer

When I tell someone that I’m a writer, I watch their minds float away behind their eyes. They’re painting a picture – the likes of a Polaroid, after it’s been shaken and blown on.

The writer perches at the edge of her seat. He taps furiously away at his keyboard. There’s a glass of wine or whiskey on the desk. And Billie Holiday, or something otherwise mournful, plays in the background.

It’s all very romantic. But what these people don’t see is our torture. They can’t grasp our capacity for pain. Nor the phases – the bipolar, schizophrenic – phases that we live through. Each month, each week, each day, or when we’re really lucky, each hour.

It feeds us, mind you…because if our minds were still, our fingers would stop.

And that would suck.

Here are some of the writerly phases I’ve been able to nail down:

• Early Morning Syndrome. This hits on those days when you wake up with the sun. You can’t believe you have the entire day before you to write. You fantasize about the number of items you’ll cross off your list. You quiver at the thought of running out of pen ink! And then. You’ve been futzing around for 4 hours, blinded by all the time you have—and though it’s only 11 am, you’re in a total panic because you’ve wasted the entire morning.
• This is too easy. It does happen. When it all just works, one project to the next and you think, someone is paying me for this? But…it’s so simple and so much fun! How is that possible? Someone recently told me that it all comes down to physics…or maybe it was calculus?
• But first I’ll eat the contents of my refrigerator. Which is why my fridge has very little in it. Still, I’ve been known to eat a tahini, ketchup, pickle and carrot sandwich. Because damn it, I will not start writing until that cold, white box in my kitchen is empty.
• The second wind. Usually it’s around 9pm. You haven’t accomplished much all day, you have to get up early the next morning, you’re about to turn off your computer. When suddenly, from out of absolutely nowhere, you are writing your ass off. You can’t stop. You can’t BE stopped. You have more energy than an eight year old boy.
• Where is everybody? Perhaps eased by the abundance of beeps, bings and gongs that my phone and my computer give me on a minute by minute basis, I still get the feeling sometimes that I’m all alone. And that I don’t want to be. I need to see, be seen, touch, connect. I simply can’t sit in this studio, at my desk, by myself for another second.
• I suck. Alisa Bowman did a phenomenal job writing this one up a few days ago. Because we all climb into that cave and think about how terrible we are. It’s not a good place to be. I’m convinced there are soul-sucking leeches in that hole. The antidote, of course, is a batline to people that will tell you unequivocally that you do not suck. Alisa suggests you keep all of the good emails in a special folder for reading at times like this.
• I rock. The world is my McDonald’s. And I am its Happy Meal. This phase is great—we all need ego to write. But it’s also dangerous—lest we think we are too good for our work and just take, take, take until there is simply nothing left for us.
• Dreaming. I’ve been known to get lost in a daydream for a good hour or so. Always shocked by the clock and befuddled that I’m sitting here at my desk. Really was so deep into it that I was convinced I was somewhere else and lost track of time and place.
• Plugged in. Pure creative output. Nothing but net.

I do not claim to capture every phase in this post—the phases of creativity frown on captivity. They’ll sooner morph into something new than be pinned to a page where they can be sussed out, possibly even bottled and sold. For more than just our sweat and tears, that is.

What did I forget? What are your phases?

Addendum: I usually put in a disclosure that this isn’t just for writers, but all creative types. I was just informed by the loverly Traeger di Pietro (painter extraordinaire) that this is indeed applicable to the painterly fellowship.

Image credit: SivamDesigns

Do unto yourself, wouldja? A lesson in decision making.

It didn’t take long after starting college for me to develop a furious eating disorder. I was simultaneously trying to fill an achingly empty hole in my heart and attempting to get a grip on a situation that was pointedly way beyond controlling. Thankfully, and because I’m really not one to put up with such senseless nonsense, the whole debacle didn’t last that long.

One of the ways I stopped it was this: I would imagine my five-year old self. And then I would ask myself: Would I do this to her? Would I stuff loads of food down her throat, then tell her she was disgusting for having eaten it and then force her to throw it up? GOD NO.

And I do not mean this in some cheesey inner-child kind of a way – I mean it in a ‘if you wouldn’t do it to a child, why in God’s name would you do it to yourself?’ way. The thought of doing any of those things to a child made me, ironically, want to barf. They put me off my self-inflicted torture for good.

Turns out, it’s a good trick – it works in many, many situations, it’s cross-problem applicable. Because we’re inclined to be nice to children. They’re so helpless and innocent. But adults? They should know better. They’re responsible and capable.

Introducing your Future Self

Which is why I was struck – as I was trying to make a rather big decision last night – when the magnificent and mind-blowing Kelly Diels said to me, “Think about your Future Self. Think about how this decision will affect her.” And then she asked me this: “Do you want to do that to her?”

Well, um, err, well…gulp. I hadn’t thought about her. Even though I think about telling super stories about the life I want, I hadn’t thought about the woman that would actually be living them. Or, rather, I hadn’t thought of her as different than me – you know, as different than the me of right now.

Huh. Just like that five-year old child, there is a her, a someone out there waiting. And the it was the realization of this distance – turning ‘me’ into ‘her’ even just for a slice of a moment – that unleashed the compassion and the caring that I am often so ready to give to others, but not, as it turns out, to myself.

Image credit: ILMO JOE

Use this for that

Way, way back, a long time ago – like in the 90′s – I ran in a fantastic road race in Harvard, MA: the annual Apple Harvest Ramble Road Race. It’s a 10-miler through a picturesque New England town, with one gargantuan hill. I ran it twice, in ’98 and ’99 – and, from race 1 to race 2, I decreased my race time by 12 minutes. That’s pretty good – for those of you who don’t run.

But the part of the story that I love the most is how I did it. You’d think that I must have run harder, longer and more often over the course of that year, practicing my craft, honing my technique and my body. But, I didn’t. I actually ran less.

What I did more was yoga. It wasn’t cardio, and therefore, it didn’t even seem compatible with running at the time. But it was. The core strength that I wrung out of every movement, the power in my legs from the lunges and warrior poses, the muscles in my upper body from the down dogs and chaturangas (plank pose), the control of my breath and the ability to use that control to move through strenuous or uncomfortable situations. They made a dramatic difference.

Interestingly, I didn’t even realize what the yoga was doing for my running until I crossed the finish line that second year – shocked at my time.

This memory popped into my head this morning, and I started thinking about how we can use the principle of it in other areas of our lives. What complimentary ‘exercise’ could we do for our writing? for any creative pursuits? for business? for whatever your main activity is?

What this could we use for that? If yoga helps running and a hammer can really open a cantaloupe, I’m sure we can think of thousands of activities that can help us do any number of things better, or at least 12 minutes faster.

Image credit: cooljinny

Go where you want to write.

The most critical piece of advice that I give to anyone who wants to write – whether I’m officially coaching them or not – is that they have to find their voice. And to do this, I highly recommend that they write like they’re talking to their best friend, mate, cohort – the person who makes them feel like their greatest self, the person who doesn’t judge, who wants the world for them, who loves and encourages their bright light to shine, shine, shine.

By the way, it’s not your mother or anyone that holds an emotionally charged lightening rod to you.

When you write like you’re writing to or talking to this person, your readers get a pure hit of the connection that sizzles between you. They feel like the circuit includes them as well, they find themselves on the inside. Because it oozes out of every word. And they are included because we’re really writing to all of our readers, yes? If you want to read more about my philosophy on this and fancy a shot of Clooney, go here.

But, today, I’m adding something to this manifesto. Location. I’ve come to realize that it’s not optimal to write when you don’t feel good about where you are. Unless you subscribe to the ‘tortured artist’ train of thought, of course. And I don’t. I think that the more magnificently your light shines, the better your writing results will be. And I mean ‘high beams’. No candles, no 40 watt bulbs.

Your writing will radiate brilliance. And your readers will want more, like crack. Or at least like a really good blog (or book or column) that they love reading and can’t get enough of.

In my mind, location is about place and so it includes physical location, but also:

• who’s in your space,
• what it smells like (I’m very big on the power of smells and ask you to kindly keep your garlic and patchouli far, far away from me),
• what you can see when your eyes look up from your computer or notebook,
• the charge that buzzes around in the air.

If you’ve been in a bad place, Starbucks in a new city may seem like heaven. If you feel drowned in the city, it may be that the woods do it for you. If you’ve been in prison, then I suppose the sky’s the limit.

And if it feels good – the place where you plant your chair – I just don’t think you can get this one wrong.

Image Credit: antecanis

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm: John Grogan, best-selling author of Marley & Me.

Just write it down, that’s all I’m sayin’…

Last week, when I mentioned ‘How-to Write’ books and how they all contain a specific bit of storytelling advice, it reminded me of something else they all tell us to do. Which is: to capture every thought, no matter how small in a notebook of some kind. To fill ‘em up.

I’m bad at writing in notebooks. But I’m not bad at writing in WordPress, apparently. I noticed today that I have 113 (that’s one hundred and thirteen) drafts saved in the backend of this blog (and, yes, I do backup). By golly, that feels like quite a few. Quite a few nuggets waiting to become full posts or books or articles or digital hogwash in my trash bin.

Makes me feel a bit rich, to be honest. Like I have a full tank of gas in reserve, should this main nozzle run dry.

Are you saving your thoughts? Storing them away in case a long hard winter should happen to befall you? How? Where?

…or, for those of you cringing, shaking your head or possibly cursing, why not?

Image credit: Gwen’s River City Images

My ass just tapped me on the shoulder.

I’m standing on the other side of the abyss, the good one. And I wanted to let you all know that the ground here is high and dry, nearly heady.

Because I read your comments carefully – and because, as far as I can tell, we’re both human – I’m going to guess that at one point or another you’ve stood on the scary side of the abyss just like I did before I got to the cushy side.

You wanted to do something, you needed to do something…but the canyon that stood between you and accomplishment just looked too damn big, wide, menacing. Impossible, you said. And sat down.

My alarm goes off at 4:30. I jump out of bed and look out the window. It’s snowing. I smile smugly at the snow. Bring it, I think smugly. Pull on my layers of Capilene, my bright orange hat, my running shoes. And head out for an eight mile run before I go to work.

This used to be my norm. Miles run, laps swum, heart pounded, sweat drenched – before the sun rose.

And then my body abruptly took on new super powers forms of exercise: first, it grew another human being; then, it made milk. Needless to say, my body was preoccupied with performing miracles. Too busy to hit the trails or the pool.

But, last spring, something changed. My ass literally tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Um, I’m thinking we should shift things back into high gear…you?’

Which is when I realized that I was standing on that cliff. On the scary side of the abyss. I had a lot of reasons why I couldn’t take the leap:

• I’m too old.
• My body forgot how.
• Once you get past a certain point, it’s just pointless.
• I don’t have time.
• I’m so frickin’ tired.
• Have you seen my parents? (I love them and they’re beautiful, but they don’t have super model bodies. I’m just sayin’.)

In the middle of this tirade, I ran into a good friend who had just finished a long rollerblade, and she told me, “It gets you right here”, and she grabbed her butt. “Makes it burn,” she said. And my ass took notice. And, then it tapped me on the shoulder again. I took the bait. I didn’t think, just started to move again.

I had really believed all of my reasons why I couldn’t do this, but they just weren’t true. Bodies are amazing – they snap back in a way that is extraordinary. Minds do too. My ‘get up and go’ tape started playing again, as if I’d simply hit play again after a long moment with the pause button down. We both quickly forgot how long that moment had been.

Now, it’s been five months. And someone recently told me that my belly looks the same as it did when I was 16. Is that really true? Um, ish. Is it a miracle? Nah. I just think that I got way too comfortable on the pitiful side of the abyss. Too shlumpy to realize the infinite possibilities hanging out across the way.

Sometimes life feels like a series of cliff dives – scary, exhilarating, progressive. The above experience being just one of my abysses. For you, it might be finally going to law school, having a baby, getting up on that karaoke stage, or – drumroll, please – writing (creatively, professionally, bloggingly).

Whatever it is, I’ll save you a seat on the other side. Believe me, if you don’t already know, the view is fabulous.

Image credit: Scampercom

Into every life, a little Michiko Kakutani must fall.

Does anyone know who Michiko Kakutani is? If you do, you get a gold star for the day. Wear it loud and proud on your forehead.

In my world (because she is bigger than this), she was the New York Times book editor that reviewed Carrie Bradshaw’s book on Sex and the City. It was a glowing review by all accounts, save one. At the very end, Michiko Kakutani said something the tiniest bit negative. It was a blade of grass in a very large field. That appeared as big as a Redwood to Carrie.

{Before I go any further, I should mention that a certain someone, who will remain anonymous for his own safety, recently told me that Carrie Bradshaw was a fictional character. Au contraire, mon frère, she’s actually hyper-real since she’s the collective reality of several brilliant, brilliant writers. So there. The above scenario really happened. Or it could have, and it does…all. the. time.}

As writers (and parents and mechanics and chefs and humans…), we’re fantastic editors and critics – of other people and of course, of ourselves. Our ears have somehow been tuned to catch the particular cacophony of criticism.

Feedback

I gave a presentation a couple of weeks ago, and the organization kindly sent me the feedback they’d collected from their surveys. Virtually all of the comments were positive, there was just one negative comment. And it was all I could see. Poor me and Carrie Bradshaw – and possibly all of you.

When I realized what I was doing, I got the brilliant idea to swing the other way. Ignore it! I thought. Throw that negative comment far, far away. But that wasn’t really the solution either. So, I shored up my fragile ego, opened my ears and eyes wide, and read the negative comment again. And I found something helpful there. Something that might make me better at what I do.

Huh.

It wasn’t an attack. It was someone’s actual experience…and it was as real as Carrie Bradshaw. It was still my choice as to whether or not I would change my presentation to match this person’s experience, I’d have to explore whether it would be beneficial for the me and the rest of my audience, but it was certainly interesting to explore the possibility without my defenses standing at attention.

And what about the praise? What about the gobs of love and goo that were also beating down the doors? While they so spinelessly let the crap in, my internal gates seem to be unwavering, stalwart even, when it comes to denying entrance to the good. Apparently, I had managed to turn the volume on the praise waaaaaay down.

Huh. Again.

I wonder if I could open my eyes and ears to the praise, too? Can I believe that the good stuff is also (gasp) real? And how would it transform my future work to really take it in? Not just in an ‘Oh, thanks!’ kind of way, but in a really soak it up and digest it kind of way. I can’t help but think that it would fortify that ego of mine, enabling it to weather the negative criticism to come and absorb it (and use it) with a fair and equanimous ear, eye…and heart.

Image credit: afsart

Before the Good Stuff

Did you know that the original purpose of doing yoga postures was to prepare the body and mind for meditation? Yes, it’s true, the goal was never tight abs and a rockin’ ass.

Still, meditation does not come easy. For the vast majority of us, it never has. As we add more and more to our lives, it grows even harder. Just ask me.

I used to wake up every morning at 5am to practice yoga – or to lead it. I worked, studied and taught at the largest yoga center in the world…and it was still hard for me to just sit down and be still.

And then, I had children and built a business, and I forgot that meditation existed. The yoga stopped.

Until last week. Something happened and I pulled out my yoga mat and, AH!, did yoga. And then something else happened…This morning, after I finished my postures, my body literally pulled me down, gently closed my eyes and dropped me into a peaceful, restful state of meditation. Block cities were being built around me, a three year-old curled into my lotus lap. But it didn’t matter. I could have sat there all day.

If you must know, I (and several of my family members) have been trying for the last three years to make myself be still, even for one minute. It’s been an unattainable goal. And I realized this morning that it was because I had forgotten the critical step. That I couldn’t just jump from crazy life to meditation, but that I had to prepare my body first.

What I was struck by was that my writing process is the exact opposite. My writing focus, that lucious connection to muse, blasts from the most chaotic and harried of moments. There is no time of preparation. There is just life and then words. Yes, I’ve written that walking in the morning helps stir my brain and stimulate words, but even then my mind is swirling and then boom.

Ah, grasshopper…so maybe my preparation is the chaos? Perhaps there is some method to this madness? Perchance ‘no preparation’ is my gameplan. What’s yours?

Image by Joe Shlabotnik