Once upon a time, I was an exercise addict. Under the guise of being a triathlete (not Ironmans! sheesh. just some local sprints: 1/2 mile swim, 12 mile bike, 3 mile run), I worked out like a fiend. If I had a 7:00 meeting, I biked at 4am. If there was a freak New England blizzard in April, I ran anyway. If the pool was closed, I found a pond or an ocean. Welcome to one of the delights of being me…
And then one day, during a 10 mile road race, I injured myself beyond repair – or at least beyond repair back to where I had been that morning. So I started walking and doing yoga. Religiously and without fail, I practiced yoga every morning. At first I thought I’d been transformed. But really I’d just transferred my addiction.
I’ve continued to do so. I still do yoga and walk most every morning (my children, upon being born, released me from the severity of my routine), but over the last few years, my commitment to writing has grown to effectively hold a prominent place beside my sneakers and my yoga mat.
You know, there really is something positive to be found in my manicopia of exercise. Sure I liked the endorphin high, the fitness, my yoga butt, the health of it all – but what I am really enamored by (and the writing practice has made this abundantly clear) is the knowledge that within minutes of opening my eyes, I have already accomplished something.
No matter what happens the rest of the day, I’m buoyed up by the knowledge of my morning success. I love that it’s totally up to me…and my tools – body, mind and laptop.
Image courtesy of wiccked