As it Gets Harder, You Must Get Easier

Years ago, I found myself in the same place I am today: struggling to make peace with my body while also working toward its improvement. I found some writings of mine about striving under difficult circumstances. When things are hard, and one feels so weak and discouraged, how to keep on keeping on?

I found that answer in a book I had about fitness. The author, a world class runner, went to Africa to train with the Kenyans. He was brought to the very edge of his endurance, and...well, I'll just let him say it:

"The Kenyan runners are the best in the world. How do these tranquil people from a tiny nation dominate the sport of running worldwide? Much of it has to do with genetics, running great lengths as children, and living in a country that treasures its runners. But there's something bigger--something we can all learn from the Kenyans: they increase their composure as the intensity heightens.

"I decided to train with the Kenyans in order to bring my running to the highest possible level. For the first five days I was an outsider, and the Kenyans did little to help me through the mind-numbingly difficult workouts. They ran, and if I fell behind, tough luck. It wasn't until the sixth day of training that they opened up and revealed their secrets about athletic performance. What took them hundreds of thousands of miles and generations to learn, I had to *earn*. And to do that, I had to run with them. Twenty-two miles a day. In the hills. And *fast*. .

"In the middle of a particularly tough climb, I began to heave from the pain of the effort. I remember pain running so deep, my eyes began to cross. One of the Kenyans leaned over and said, 'As it gets harder, you need to get easier.'"

Then, and now, this spoke to me After I read it, I carried it with me everywhere I went, in everything I did. I softened, softened. I loosened my mind and my body. I became less afraid to feel the intensity of my discomfort--physical, emotional, whatever--and instead stepped right into the center of it and just let it suffuse me, or sit there, or do whatever it would do. Sometimes, it was agony. Sometimes, it began to melt away, just like the nightmare figures I confronted in my dreams. I practice things, like I practiced cursive writing in the third grade or playing the flute when I was 7 or learning to ride a bike again when I was 23. I will practice running like the Kenyans. I'll probably mess up a lot, as I always do. I'll react out of pain and fear. I'll take to my bed and get paralyzed for a spell. I'll make the same old mistakes I make year after year after year. But I will, as an old friend once said to me, remain in motion, remain in light.