Finding Ease
I've never really been good at sports. I can't throw—or catch—a ball with any accuracy. My brief experience with golf led me to believe that the goal is trying to hit the ground as hard as possible with an expensive stick. Tennis? Hopeless. Swimming? I mostly just know how not to drown.
When I was in high school, however, my father decided to take up running and invited me to join him. How hard could it be? Put one foot in front of the other and repeat. So I laced up a pair of tennis shoes from K-Mart and headed out with him.
I never really stopped.
Over the decades, I've occasionally had to take time off—weeks, months, even years—to recover from injuries. But, thank God, I've never stopped for good.
That doesn't mean it's easy. In fact, it is often really hard. And as I get older, it gets harder. My joints ache. I run more slowly and not as far. But because I know how important regular exercise is—backed up by every medical study—I still run whenever my body allows it.
This morning, I headed out for a run in cool sunshine. The scenery was stunning. But it was still work. As I chugged up a steep hill, I remembered a throwaway line from an article I read years ago. The author suggested that one of the greatest benefits of challenging exercise is learning how to tolerate discomfort.
My lungs were straining. My knees ached. It would have been much more comfortable to walk—or stop altogether. But I kept running. I kept swinging my arms, lifting my feet, reminding myself that (1) I was not actually going to die, (2) the hill would eventually end, and (3) perhaps I could find some ease in the middle of the discomfort.
Was there any part of me that didn't hurt? My elbow? My wrist? Could I look up and notice the bright green tips of new growth on the trees? Could I find ease in taking a slightly deeper breath?
It turns out I could.
I reached the top of the hill and finished my run. But the thought stayed with me long after I made it home. How else might this idea apply to the rest of life?
After all, there is no shortage of discomfort in everyday life. I have aging parents. My children and grandchildren face their own obstacles. I help run a nonprofit that is in constant need of funding. The people we serve are often hurting. And when I sit down to paint, there are days when the ideas refuse to come, when nothing feels original or authentic, when a piece stubbornly refuses to resolve.
It would be so much more comfortable if all of these challenges would simply disappear. If the people I love were protected from hardship. If funding were secure. If every painting worked exactly as I hoped.
But they won't.
And I hate that.
Still, I wonder if I can practice finding some ease in the midst of the discomfort. I ask myself: Is there anything going well right now? In my life? In the lives of my parents, children, and grandchildren? Is our nonprofit making a difference? Have there been moments in the studio when a new color, texture, or design surprised me?
Of course the answer is yes.
As difficult as it is to tolerate the uncertainty, the anxiety, and the not-knowing, I still have a choice about where I place my attention. That choice doesn't dismiss the reality of the strain or the hurt. It doesn't make the hill any less steep. But it reminds me that ease, joy, gratitude, and beauty can exist alongside discomfort.
I just have to keep lacing up my shoes and putting one foot in front of the other.
