An enduring memory I have is one of my sister commenting that I never finish things I start. This was probably some time in our college years, and it was a seemingly innocent observation, I think, and not entirely wrong. But those words stung, and their impact was considerable. I cannot say how many times during my running experience those words have come back to me . . . I seem to keep trying to outrun the accusation and its underlying truth.
There is a long list of things I have quit in life without having mastered: learning a musical instrument; learning foreign languages; staying in touch with people I care about; dozens of exercise programs or memberships; training plans or races registered but not run; countless books.
I have learned something else as I’ve grown older, though. There is also a rather long list of things I ought to have quit but didn’t: a major I never loved; trying to please everyone; avoiding criticism; continuing in a job that demanded more than I am willing to give; waiting to be noticed; comparing myself to others; ruminating about the past.
I wonder how it might change things to stop fearing the “Quitter” label and instead embrace the willingness to try, even those things that I know I may not ever master or that may never manifest in outward success. Can I call myself a writer if I’m not pursuing it towards an end? Can I take a single art class and decide whether I want to continue? Can I try a new job, then decide it’s not for me and walk away? Can I view that through the lens of beginning, experimentation, learning—rather than counting it as failure if I never reach a finish line?
I think running is helpful in this regard. Running is part of the rhythm of my days and weeks. I have done it regularly for decades with occasional lapses, and daily for more than a year now. I have run races ranging from three to 26 miles. Most importantly, running brings me joy and peace. And yet, I do not anticipate that I will ever win a race. I am not the fastest, or the fittest, or the best. I am sure I will continue to misjudge my training capacity and have to bail on races I sign up for or fail to follow a training plan. And yet. I am a runner, in the way that matters the most to me—despite the times I’ve quit training for a race, missed weeks or even months of running, or been sidelined by an injury or sickness. Of course, there is no finish line to a habit. Someday, I will probably quit running–my knees will demand it, or my back or hips, or life will be busy and it will fall by the wayside and I simply will not find my way back. But it will always have been worthwhile, for what it’s taught me and for the strength, peace, and relationships it has added to my life. Running was worth beginning, and beginning again, and again, and again. Even though someday I will quit.
I didn’t really mean to quit writing here. Life gets busy, and sometimes that means I cannot find time, and sometimes it means things are so jumbled and confused that I just don’t know the right thing to say or the right way to say it. I am too overwhelmed by my thoughts and feelings, by feeling vulnerable in putting my thoughts in print. But I want to write for the sake of writing, to find my way forward and see where it takes me, even if that is the equivalent of running well-worn circles on a neighborhood path.
Hope Runs On 