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And who shall I say is calling?
Nov. 16th, 2011 04:33 pmI did not sleep last night.
Lying awake, fretful, resentful, disappointed and self-loathing, is not a fruitful use of one's time. One has all kinds of disordered thoughts in the small hours, and there is no escape from the inside of one's own head.
At five a.m., gritty-eyed, pissed off, and unreasonably full of despair, I got up and went for a run, in the hope that sweat would wake me up - and burn off the brain-poison - enough to function for the class I was supposed to attend today.
Five a.m. is a peculiar, deserted time to go running. All the way along to the beach in the half-dimness that's not true darkness and isn't yet the twilight of before-dawn, I saw shadows in hedgerows, half-glimpsed brain-phantoms. Away from daylight and the glare of artificial light, it's easy to understand how people believe in spirits; in the silence of the surf and the wind, everything seems louder, more significant.
I hit my stride. I ran well - I surprised myself, actually - without the distraction of traffic or any sound other than the noise of the sea and the voice of the river and the rush of water hurdling under manholes in the deserted street. If I had a destination, I thought to myself, I could pace myself and run forever in this silence.
Which is a foolish thought. But I think I realised something, perhaps. This week is a nexus of stressful events, compounded by provoking news: a coaching course, a colloquium, a day school, a dan grading, classes. Pressure, and the dark end of the year. It's not surprising that it destabilises me, pushes me off-kilter. It's not surprising, particularly when I don't remember that I'm human, and need to pace myself. I cannot work for an athlete's capacity in three seperate physical activities - running, martial arts, climbing - while also learning two languages and writing a thesis. I cannot do these things and hope to have much of a social life.
Something falls away. It must not be either the languages or the thesis. So far it has been the climbing, which I regret with vicious grief - but I can't kick myself for not having the time or the endurance to push on harder, attempt to do all the things and keep what I have in the way of freelance work. I have to find my stride, find the sweet spot of rhythm and balance where the pain drops away to a thing that can be harnessed instead of merely endured.
I'm not, after all, living my life for someone else. If I fall, I need to take care of myself until I can get going again. There's little point in beleaguering myself for needing time, or space, or comfort. I won't go into a dojo when I'm full of rage or despair, because without mental focus, it does no one any good. Why should I think a classroom, or a thesis, ought to be different?
In a dojo, the possibility is that you will cause someone to damage you. Or worse, damage someone else. In a classroom, the only one taking damage is you. It doesn't have to be physical to hurt.
After my run, I came home, showered, and drank a pot of strong black tea. Then, after staring at the walls for a while, I wrote my excuses to the people I was supposed to see today, and went to bed for six hours.
I don't like being a jerk and giving little notice. And I don't like being a boiling pot of rage and despair and unexpected fragility. But it is what it is. I can either work around it, or, driving onward through it, compound it.
Lying awake, fretful, resentful, disappointed and self-loathing, is not a fruitful use of one's time. One has all kinds of disordered thoughts in the small hours, and there is no escape from the inside of one's own head.
At five a.m., gritty-eyed, pissed off, and unreasonably full of despair, I got up and went for a run, in the hope that sweat would wake me up - and burn off the brain-poison - enough to function for the class I was supposed to attend today.
Five a.m. is a peculiar, deserted time to go running. All the way along to the beach in the half-dimness that's not true darkness and isn't yet the twilight of before-dawn, I saw shadows in hedgerows, half-glimpsed brain-phantoms. Away from daylight and the glare of artificial light, it's easy to understand how people believe in spirits; in the silence of the surf and the wind, everything seems louder, more significant.
I hit my stride. I ran well - I surprised myself, actually - without the distraction of traffic or any sound other than the noise of the sea and the voice of the river and the rush of water hurdling under manholes in the deserted street. If I had a destination, I thought to myself, I could pace myself and run forever in this silence.
Which is a foolish thought. But I think I realised something, perhaps. This week is a nexus of stressful events, compounded by provoking news: a coaching course, a colloquium, a day school, a dan grading, classes. Pressure, and the dark end of the year. It's not surprising that it destabilises me, pushes me off-kilter. It's not surprising, particularly when I don't remember that I'm human, and need to pace myself. I cannot work for an athlete's capacity in three seperate physical activities - running, martial arts, climbing - while also learning two languages and writing a thesis. I cannot do these things and hope to have much of a social life.
Something falls away. It must not be either the languages or the thesis. So far it has been the climbing, which I regret with vicious grief - but I can't kick myself for not having the time or the endurance to push on harder, attempt to do all the things and keep what I have in the way of freelance work. I have to find my stride, find the sweet spot of rhythm and balance where the pain drops away to a thing that can be harnessed instead of merely endured.
I'm not, after all, living my life for someone else. If I fall, I need to take care of myself until I can get going again. There's little point in beleaguering myself for needing time, or space, or comfort. I won't go into a dojo when I'm full of rage or despair, because without mental focus, it does no one any good. Why should I think a classroom, or a thesis, ought to be different?
In a dojo, the possibility is that you will cause someone to damage you. Or worse, damage someone else. In a classroom, the only one taking damage is you. It doesn't have to be physical to hurt.
After my run, I came home, showered, and drank a pot of strong black tea. Then, after staring at the walls for a while, I wrote my excuses to the people I was supposed to see today, and went to bed for six hours.
I don't like being a jerk and giving little notice. And I don't like being a boiling pot of rage and despair and unexpected fragility. But it is what it is. I can either work around it, or, driving onward through it, compound it.
