The Journey

Late Winners

On Saturday, I felt the sweat sting my eyes as I tried to focus on how my feet were hitting the track while I ran the fastest mile I've run in a decade.  I felt like a clumsy 14 year old kid again, struggling to go fast, while falling in and out of my new form.  Moments of speed were interrupted by 35 years of bad muscle memory.  Afterwards, I went to the fence and hung on, trying not to lose my breakfast.  I was miserable, but that meant I'm growing again.  The Houston Marathon is 8 months away and I'm only up to 1 mile. 

My dad always had a saying that he liked to pull out when I got down and compared myself to others.  "Early winners, late losers," he'd say.  Once the given endeavor got to the point where the easy points, miles, reports, money, recognition or whatever had been gathered, those who put their heads down and kept going would continue to reap rewards long into the future.

Somewhere, though, in the midst of life, I'd settled into that point of being good enough.  Growing meant work, and work meant trials, and trials meant pain, and that frightened me because I don't like to fail.  I'd been resting on my natural ability to run, solve problems, and just live life.

Recently, it seems that all of my friends have launched their own athletic resurrections.  I've watched each one of them do the work necessary to break lose from the routine of an easy daily life and find out what they're capable of accomplishing.  My friend Daniel out in Nashville went from a couch surfing musician to doing 100 mile bike rides on the weekends; my high school friend Cynthia in Colorado is preparing for her first half-Ironman triathlon; my life long friend Jeff in Houston, who always made a pretty good backline digger in volleyball, erupted last weekend at Ironman Texas to finish the 140.6 mile race in under 12 hours.  Each of them have weighed heavily on my mind.  Without trying, they have challenged me, and I am more grateful to them than they can imagine.

Each of them has answered the question that has haunted me for the past few years.  A girl I went out with once asked me, right before Ironman Arizona 2008, "What could you do if you really tried?"  I failed to finish that race, falling less to heat exhaustion, and more to my own lack of hard work (and she broke up with me the next day.  Good times.)  My friends are finding out, and I realized that despite past success, I never really embraced the question, until now.

So, like with everything else in my life right now, I'm starting from zero, literally learning to put one foot in front of the other.  Step by step.  I had early success based on one formula, but scrapped it all.  With faith that God will show me, usually through other people, I want to know how to really live.  How to manage my finances, how to love people, how to build a business, and how to discern God's direction in everything I do.

I'm learning how to walk.  Eventually, I'll learn to run.

Onward,

JRH

Plant Manager

I was given a plant a few months ago when I moved into my new apartment.  I’ve never owned a plant before.  I once had some moldy bread, so that’s kind of like having a really low maintenance plant, but it’s not the sort of thing people give to one another as a housewarming gift.

My friend’s mom once told him that he’d be ready for a relationship when he could keep either a plant or a pet alive.  A few weeks later he proudly declared that he was ready for a relationship because he’d gone out and bought… a cactus.  Aside from moldy bread, that’s probably the greatest low maintenance organism possible.  Well played.

Plants are harder in some ways than pets.  A puppy will howl when it wants out of its kennel, it pees on the carpet and requires your attention, and begs when it’s hungry or sees my food.  It provides obvious feedback and I must react.  I may not react properly, but I have to do something.  A plant is much more subtle.  It doesn’t say anything.  It doesn’t move unless the fan is blowing on it.  It will never complain.  It will never tell me what I’m doing wrong.  It will just show me, but I have to look for it.

So, I have owned my plant for several months, and while it grew a small amount, it didn’t flourish by simply being in my presence the way I had imagined it should.  Vain and narcissistic?  You betcha.  Selfish?  That’s me.  Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Plants require good soil.  I needed to put it into a big pot with plenty of room to grow, with gravel in the bottom for the proper drainage, and good soil where the roots can spread out.
2. Plants require sunlight.  It’s a sunless palm, but it’s not a mushroom.  It needs to be kept in a prominent place to get the light it needs throughout the day.  Light is a good thing.
3. Plants require attention.  I have to keep my eye on the plant, checking to see if it’s growing or not, admiring the new growth, and pruning the dead or dying chutes.  I know how I’m doing only by seeing if it’s growing or dying.
4. Plants requires that little something extra.  I bought some fertilizer because even good soil needs a boost.  Being inside, it was only going to get that boost from me and not from nature.  I had to make the investment.  It was only $10 for a bottle of mystery nutrients, but that means that’s one less time I can go out for dinner.  The investment was coupled with worthwhile sacrifice.  Keeping that plant alive is more important than me eating a gourmet hamburger (with bacon and jalapenos).
5. Plants require consistency.  For the plant to grow, I needed to turn it periodically to face the sun.  I needed to set up a schedule to water it and not just do so when I happened to think about it or saw a bunch of dead leaves and once again try to resurrect it.  Once it got back on track, I had to keep doing the same things that got it growing in the first place.

I suppose I could sing to my plant as some people recommend, but like I said, I'm not trying to kill it.

It’s the same for friendships and relationships, and it reveals my ignorance.  People respond to me when I invest in them, just as I respond to people who invest in me.  Some plants, and friendships, are hardier than others, but those are the rare exception.  The vast majority require investment, consistency, attention, room to grow, and exposure to good things.  The best ones get that little something special. 

The plant gives me almost nothing in return, yet I invest in it.

I’m 35 years old and it is taking a plant, a small sunless palm, to teach me selflessness.

 

Growing.

JRH