Beauty is both a source of inspiration and of despair. It fills the soul with wonder, joy, and hope, while simultaneously crushing dreams, inviting doubt, and breaking the spirit.
This reality, though paradoxical on its dichotomous surface, haunts me constantly, in good ways and bad. It’s beautiful. It’s painful. It’s wonderful. It’s horrible. It’s everything at once.
The full nature of beauty, though, is a matter of perspective. And this perspective is informed by one’s own personal experience.
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Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” is (as far as I’m concerned) the most perfect album ever created. The songs are arranged so the current track is informed by the previous. This crafts a majestic narrative that builds and builds until you finally reach the climactic line “Tear down the wall!” If you don’t have goosebumps when the wall comes tumbling to the ground amid the chants of a frenzied crowd, I don’t know what to say to you.
In addition to the impeccable song placement and chillingly brilliant narrative of the album, the vocal characterizations of the people in the story are engaging to a degree I’ve never experienced in any other album ever. And, as if that weren’t enough, Pink Floyd’s use of sound design (in tandem with the musical instrumentation) fills the album with a visceral tension that makes you feel like you’re right there with the characters in the story.
I could go on and on. It’s not an uncommon thing for me to listen to “The Wall,” say “Damn. That was good,” and immediately listen to it again. Even just writing about it makes me want to stop what I’m doing and go hit play on that masterpiece. But I’ll resist the temptation and continue.
Listening to “The Wall” on repeat is the best and worst thing to do. I am relentlessly overwhelmed by its perfection and as a result, I’m forced to realize I’ll never be able to create anything as immaculate and pure. Not even close. It would be pretentious of me to think otherwise.
As I continue to write, both songs and stories and whatever else, I’m haunted by this understanding. And it’s not just “The Wall.” There are any number of artistic examples where I’ll listen/read/watch something and feel dread and gratitude at the same time: I’m grateful for the experience, but I dread my own inability to create something of comparable merit.
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On a similar, but far more personal note, I experience the same contradictory set of emotions when I interact with a beautiful woman. (And it’s important to mention, I don’t mean beauty in the limited sense of physicality. I’m speaking of beauty in a more holistic nature. Physical beauty is great, but it’s secondary. For example, I couldn’t fall in love with someone based solely on her appearance.)
Now, when I interact with a beautiful woman, I’m feeling two things at once. First, I feel intrigued. More often than not, the first thing I’m attracted to is word choice. This is generally true of me in both a romantic and platonic sense. The fastest way to win (and subsequently break) my heart is to say something unique and interesting.
Second, I feel complete despair. In the past, I’ve either been entirely alone in my feelings for someone else or I think there’s some reciprocation and then get a rude awakening when I find out that, no, in fact, that was not the case. This negative reinforcement has left me jaded, cynical, and lonely. And now most of my interactions with beautiful and interesting women are informed by this pessimism in a misguided attempt at shielding myself from further harm.
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I often feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines, watching my friends and peers experience beauty in exclusively positive ways. Many of my friends are finding love or getting married. A lot of them are pursuing their goals and seeing real progress as they fulfill their dreams. Some are getting big opportunities with their careers. Others are traveling and seeing the world.
I’m incredibly happy for them. I don’t begrudge them their various successes. I want them to do well. I want them to see all their hopes and dreams come true. But even though I’m rooting for them, I still see the good things that come their way with green eyes.
I’ll see someone in a healthy relationship and think, “It would be nice to not be lonely.” I’ll see someone pursuing their artistic endeavors with encouraging success and think, “It would be nice to see progress when it comes to creative ambitions.” I’ll see someone get a huge career opportunity and think, “It would be nice to have prospects to make some money and have a little freedom.” I’ll see someone post a photo from an exotic locale and think, “It would be nice to be out in the world instead of trapped here all the time.”
Seeing the experiences and progress of others is wonderful because I want my friends to succeed and grow. It’s fantastic and I’m proud of them. But it also destroys me. It makes me feel like a failure. It reveals how far I have to go. The obstacles feel insurmountable and I fear I’ll never free myself from my demons.
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Let’s shift gears here and talk about running (because I haven’t already written enough about running apparently).
Running is my church, my Zen. Of anything I do, running is the most pure. I love it and enjoy it more than just about anything else in life. And I’m pretty good at it. I’m not the best, but I’m above average.
I’ve read books and articles by, and about, ultramarathoners. I’ve seen documentaries and short films showing these ultra-athletes doing what they love. All of it is incredibly inspiring.
Much like any other beautiful thing, ultra running fills me with wonder. But unlike most other beautiful things, seeing a gifted ultra runner in no way makes me doubt my own abilities. I don’t fear failure. I don’t resent the vast gap between me and others more skilled or experienced than I.
You see, when it comes to running, I only feel gratitude. Even when I’m suffering through a difficult or challenging run, there’s an underlying attitude of “I can’t believe I get to do this. It’s too amazing.” I look at runners far better than I without envy. I appreciate my own skill without comparison to that of others.
I want to be an ultramarathoner. I’m intrigued by those insane distances. And I’m working toward that end. What’s more, I’m seeing progress. I can get there. Of that I have no doubt. I’m sure I won’t be winning all the races or getting any kind of recognition, but I don’t care. Running is not about anything except running. Every time I start to get a little too serious, I take a step back. If running isn’t enjoyable, I don’t want to do it. Even if I’m good at it.
I am unfathomably grateful I get to run. I wish everyone else understood just how wonderful it is. I hate hearing about others’ distaste for my beloved sport because it’s more than a physical activity; it’s a spiritual experience. One I wish all of us would appreciate.
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So what does this have to do with “The Wall,” relationships, or the successes of my peers? Those former examples of beauty as a double-edged sword, at once inspiring wonder and despair, what do they have to do with the purity of running?
Well, let’s say a new runner, or perhaps a non-runner who aspires to the practice, sees me run. Maybe he or she hears how far/fast I go. To someone just starting out, the numbers are daunting.
I don’t mean to be self-serving when I say this. I have ten years of running experience and love it more than most anybody I know. Of course my runs are going to seem crazy to someone starting out in much the same way that I look like a rookie compared to the likes of Scott Jurek.
So what if this beginner looks at me and thinks, “Man, I can barely run two miles without feeling like death. I’ll never get there.” What if this beginner is looking at me with the same contradictory feelings of inspiration and envy that I feel in just about every other area of my life? What would I want that person to know?
What I want that person to know is simple. You can do it. Don’t beat yourself up. For my first seven (or so) years as a runner, I primarily enjoyed how I felt after a run and not during. Running was incredibly hard for me, but I eventually learned to love the run for its own sake more than for that tasty afterglow.
If you’re just starting out, it’s going to be hard. And when you’ve got a lot of experience, it’s going to be hard in different ways, but you’ll have the emotional fortitude to withstand and carry on. These days, as a runner, I welcome challenges. In a weird way, I like it when things go wrong. I think, “Well, here’s an opportunity to improve. Bring it on.”
Though some may have a degree of skill that feels unreachable, they weren’t always that skilled. Everyone starts somewhere. Sure, some people are born with certain advantages, but even with that, most of those people wouldn’t have gotten anywhere if they relied solely on their privileged starting point.
The concept that something is unattainable is just that: a concept. In the same way that beauty is a concept. It only has the kind of power you give it.
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I can hear some of you saying, “Maybe you should take your own advice.” And you’re absolutely right. It’s absurd how easy an emotionally healthy outlook is for me as it relates to running, especially when compared to its difficulty in literally every other facet of my life. But that’s why I’m writing this at all. It’s for me more than anyone else.
There is beauty in reflecting on failure from a position of success. There is beauty in suffering for a hope or dream. There is beauty in sacrifice. There is beauty in longing. There is beauty in everything. Perspective is the key.
I’m still going to have great difficulty seeing hope just as a new runner will still have great difficulty in building his or her endurance. I’m going to despair more often than not. I’m going to wrestle with the constant adversity of my life as it is versus my life as I would like it to be.
Beautiful things are dangerous. Beauty is little more than raw energy. It’s up to us to shape how that energy is used. Beauty can create a defeatist or provide the necessary push to rise above. See beauty in everything and let none of it destroy you. It’s all a matter of which perspective you choose.
So which perspective will I choose? Both. Inevitably. But hopefully I can see the bigger picture more often than I currently do. And hopefully you will too.