Even though I think of myself as a voracious reader, I am not exactly certain that this description is true these days. Sure, I would like to be voracious, but between business ownership and family, spin class and exercise, chores and duties, reading often takes it on the chin. But I read daily, and I try to read a variety of books. A few days ago, after three weeks of reading, I finished a lengthy, exhaustively researched, occasionally interesting, and often mind-numbing biography of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. (The author’s great regret? After working on this book for 20 years and discussing it with her husband at length nightly, her husband died prematurely, and before the book’s publication. After reading that regret, and reading the book itself, I have my own ideas.) And this morning, to cleanse the palate, I finished a collection of profane, often hilarious personal essays by a comedian.
While I try to read a variety of books, I rarely read self-help or self-improvement books. Yes, I need help, and yes, I need improvement, but I find that these types of books chap my hide. (If I had to pinpoint the source of my irritation, it’s the length: If you’ve got a great idea, tell me in 2,000 words or less — not over 400 pages. Or, to cadge from my friend Jessica, there are a number of books that would function better as magazine articles.) So I typically steer clear.
Except when I don’t, which leads me to divulge this dirty little secret: I have two such books on my nightstand right now. I ordered both in moments of weakness. I have not read the first one, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing. Ironically, it sits in a tall pile of books next to my bed, and every time I see it, and especially its placement, I feel very guilty. When I needed a break from F. Scott’s alcoholism and Zelda’s schizophrenia, I skimmed in a single evening the second one, Clean: The Revolutionary Program to Restore the Body’s Natural Ability to Heal Itself. To clean, I apparently need a two-week long detox of kale shakes, organic vegetables, minimal fruit, little to no meat, no eggs, absolutely no caffeine, hours of cooking, and (optional but recommended) colonics. The author warns that at first I may feel grumpy (you think?) but soon the kingdom of good health will throw wide its gates. I woke up inspired the next morning, only to find myself eating three Krystals and a diet Coke for lunch — none of which would have normally appealed to me absent the dual specters of kale and colonics, all of which suddenly became a moral battle: You can have this Krystal only if you pry it from my puffy, unclean, bacon-handling hands.
I reached the height of my how-to stage when I was a swimmer. As a 33 year-old recovering from a stress fracture in my foot, I taught myself how to swim from a book that my children received in a Chick-Fil-A kid’s meal, joined an adult swim team, and generally went way overboard. Just how overboard is another story entirely, but to give you a taste, let’s just say that a few years into swimming, one of us trained for a 12 mile lake swim (illness ended it at the five-mile mark) and thought seriously of swimming the English Channel. Swimming tried to kill me (have you ever heard of a swimmer who developed severe asthma from chlorine? now you have), and my swim career ended abruptly in 2008 due to an impressive shoulder injury in a car wreck. But in the seven years of my swim career, I became a formidable source of swim mechanics and swim history, sports stats and sports platitudes. My favorite in the last category had to do with the five steps toward mastery of a skill:
- Unconscious incompetence.
- Conscious incompetence.
- Conscious competence.
- Unconscious competence.
- Mastery.
I fear that I became a bit tiresome with all of this knowledge (for instance: Did you know that no one in my household really cares about Mark Spitz’ training diet in 1971?), and I decided to slow my how-to roll.
Until now, when I have placed the decluttering book in a giant stack and washed down the clean eating book with a gut bomb and artificially sweetened soda. But that is not to say that progress has not been made. At breakfast yesterday morning, I found myself eating an organic rice cake, almond butter, and fresh blackberries. At bedtime last night, I found myself hauling out unworn clothes and uncomfortable shoes from the little closet of horrors. And throughout the day, in small and often imperceptible choices, I have found myself inching toward a balanced life. I apply sunscreen. I return library books on time. I typically eat meat only once a day. I have grown to love avocados. I sleep seven hours a night. I curse less. I exercise in moderation. I walk 12,000 steps. And all of these good habits beget other good habits.
So last night, while I was lying in bed with a book at the ready, I turned to Chris and told him this: I feel like I am less of a mess than ever before. It was less a boast, more a statement of fact. And while I have no doubt that it was true, I had no idea exactly where to go from here, or what it meant to have achieved some sort of balance. My big fears were that balance would lead to a life that was static and uninteresting, a stint of tiresome virtue, a lack of opportunity to grow.
I woke up this morning with the whole issue of balance on my mind. After a ridiculously healthy breakfast marred by my iced tea consumption, it was time to exercise. (That whole sentence smacks of the tiresome virtue I fear.) I have a Pilates reformer, and if you were to see it without knowing what it is, you might think that I have a very interesting personal life: It has straps and pulleys, a moving mat, springs, sheepskin protectors. It is vaguely Scandinavian-looking, and at 8 feet long, it is large. It is not a contraption designed by lawyers, for if you are a lawyer (like I am), you realize that the entire machine is one foreseeable misuse after another. (If this description tells you nothing, here is what a Pilates reformer looks like.)
Pilates is an interesting endeavor: The more I do it, the harder it gets — or (at least) the harder I realize it is. The exercises I did this morning, fittingly enough, all involved balance. I would find myself grounded on one leg on a moving carriage, one hand in a strap, the other hand holding a weight, moving slowly and hoping I did not fall. I navigated one precarious position after another, sweating and occasionally cursing silently. I had to think about it, and at times, not think about it. I found it almost impossible to be totally still; everything would shake as I tried not to move. At some point, my son wandered downstairs and saw what I was doing: Be careful, mom. Don’t fall. You could get hurt. And at times, when my body and brain were struggling for some sort of equilibrium, I thought that this is what it’s all about.
So the physical this morning answered the mental question of last night: What does it mean to have balance? It is far from static. It is far from dull. It is discipline and repetition. It is challenge. It is thinking and not thinking. It is sweating and cursing and not falling. It is falling and getting back up. It is conscious competence, with fleeting glimpses of unconscious competence — and always, yes always, the hope of mastery.
ALC