Confessions of a Lifter
It’s not the wrong things I’ve done that are most regrettable; it’s the wrong things I’ve said.
My blunders are numerous and it is from them I grow. The accidents, mistakes and misjudgments are suffered, their consequences are observed and, where possible, restorations are made. Lessons learned assure I won’t repeat the folly and enable me to step forward and perform more effectively and correctly tomorrow. Let’s call it growth. Life is good.
But the hurtful things I’ve said cut the deepest: hasty remarks, cruel insults, insensitive exclamations, ugly retorts, biased judgments, unfair accusations and paranoid comments. I think, how wrong of me and how bad I feel -- guilty, stupid; what about them and how hurt they must be -- angry, disappointed. A bully, a coward am I. Not even a sincere apology can erase the mark. It’s indelible. The pain, though it fades, is recurring. The memory of the moment loses detail, but its outline is etched in the psyche. And some of the people on the wrong end of the etching tool are the dearest people I know, the dearest and most damaged.
Confessions of a lifter. So, lowest of creatures walking the earth (that would be me), what does this have to do with musclebuilding, power and might? Not sure. I recall my reckless past on occasion and shrug my shoulders. I might even grin and shake my head at a stupid incident, rebellious episode, foolish indiscretion or wrong choice, and appreciate the broadening role it played in my formation and survival. The idiot endured.
The recollection, however, of an unworthy slash made with my tongue is forever devastating. The grief, like lightening, strikes suddenly. I flinch, singed by a lick of fire from hell. Not only diabolic, I believe the searing is catabolic and we pay for the dirty injustice in muscle loss. You reap what you sow, brothers and sisters. Karma, the grand equalizer, promises what goes around comes around. The grim reaper doth reach and take.
Hurting someone’s feelings is destructive and unacceptable. The penalty is severe. Suffering muscle loss no words can describe.
You see, it’s not only what we eat and how we train that determines our muscular development. How we live our lives is a major contributing factor.
Considering the common everyday negatives peppering our days -- thus our training -- I determined that lack of time and excessive busy-ness secure the top spots. I combine the two because they are somewhat inseparable and codependent. Had we more time, perhaps, we’d be less busy. Though, as I write down the thought, the less convinced I am it’s a fact. Like money, the more we have, the more we spend, and the more we need and want. Beware the paradoxes that mire the way.
Too busy to work out regularly is almost a legitimate reason. Likewise, not enough time to work out is as convincing. Too busy for health, not enough time for muscle and might? I don’t buy it. They are far too important to compromise. Your life depends on them: wellbeing, strength, fitness, energy, endurance, performance, clarity and the lively spirit and attitudes they engender. And there’s nothing wrong with looking good. Three workouts a week, prideful, stimulating and fulfilling hours wisely spent with yourself. This is precious and privileged stuff; who can deny their place?
We’re surrounded, troops. The cohabitant negatives of too-busy and not-enough-time are frantic and worrisome. Oh, man, what a destructive pair these two make, and they are ordinary in today’s community of characters. Do you wonder why? Turn on the news, watch a whacky sitcom, catch a serial killer or investigate a crime scene on cable TV, listen to current pop music, dig into talk radio or bury yourself on the freeway. Check out your credit card balances and fill 'er up at the pump. Frantic and worrisome are there to greet you!
Did you know the best resistance to and resolution for anxiety and fretting, besides prayer, is exercise, followed by laughter and deep-sea treasure hunting in the Gulf of Akaka? Trust me. The insidious pair is detrimental to the central nervous system, causes indigestion and stomach ulceration, produces toxins, upsets the hormones, inhibits positive thinking, magnifies negative thinking, clouds clear thinking and destroys relationships. Your bite could be poisonous.
This does not sound like a boon to pretty curves and physique development.
Exercise and physical fitness obviously require time and effort. But to excel -- and why bother to undertake an undertaking unless you expect to exceed -- you must have passion. Passion is unbridled enthusiasm, energized desire, inner excitement. It is not going through the motions, aimless poking along. Passion comes from within, from the heart, and it is stimulated by an outside source, motivation. Traced to its roots, passion is kin to inspiration.
When speaking of passion, inspiration, enthusiasm, excitement and desire, we are no longer dealing with words only. We step beyond utterances and thoughts and into the realm of the soul. Sounds and thoughts give way to simply being. Be, bub.
We’re surrounded by inspiration if only we open our eyes and listen to our hearts. Look and listen, see and hear -- and, while we’re at it, feel... feel deeply. Don’t be frightened, it doesn’t hurt; it’s not childish or girly, guys. Weightlifters feel deeply big time. Deep feeling is chiseled in their traps.
Without passion and inspiration we go halfway in twice the time and we drag our sorry selves along the way. Pursue inspiration calmly, steadily and with expectation. Don’t look back. It’ll run you over like a speeding freight train.
We’re a crazy bunch, bombers; appreciate the missteps, wrong turns and stumbles you’ve taken; the silly thoughts and dopey longings you’ve considered. Had you not, you’d be among the crowd of ordinary squabblers... squabbling.
Amid this wave... yeah, right... ripple of thinking, I’m reminded of additional forces in the wrong direction, further negative powers, that hold us back. Negatives and wrongs and discussions about them sound depressing until we realize the context in which they are regarded. We’re exploring the scoundrels, airing the foul debris and divulging the loathsome detractors that they might perish from exposure. We’re kicking them down the street like old tin cans, knocking them about with a clatter... cheap improvised playthings beneath our feet. Look at them go; they’re on the run.
Disorder is a scoundrel, you know. The time we don’t have is lost to disorder. The busy-ness that makes us frantic is a direct result of our disorder. From chaos comes no good thing, despite what dull theorists claim. Get your life in order and the treasures lost in time are uncovered with every saved minute, gained hour and stolen day. Order is soothing to the soul. Order restores the mind. Order gives relief to the burdened body.
The best way -- this is a scientific fact -- the best way to discover, gain or regain order and establish it for good is to exercise regularly. Let your life begin.
Along with order is consistency. You can do a fine thing for awhile and be approved. But do a good thing for a long time with enthusiasm and spirit and the world is yours. Your head says no, but your heart and soul say yes. All that is good is in the sets and reps, the barbells and dumbbells. Lift that iron, push that steel; let’s hear the metal clang.
There’s something we must not forget. When all is said and done or almost done, it’s time to relax, rest and repair. Take hold of time, cup it in your hands; put the fading worries aside, allow order to rule, deny the doubts and wallow in passion. The all of you aches to grow and pleads for choice time and space to do it.
Clear the runway, I’m taking off. Space and time are limitless when soaring, gliding and flying in the wind. Go swiftly, yet not with haste, and the journey is yours.
Bomb voyage... DD
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