Moment

Not all minutes are equal... Many pass us by without a second thought. I wiled about forty-five of them this morning, looking out the window and thinking. A moment is something different, I would like to suggest, that a moment, is a minute that has an impact. A minute that defines the way we are as humans. A moment is something that we will remember indefinitely. 

I do not write about my fitness journey very often, in fact, I never write about it. Part of the reason for that is it is intensely personal, another reason is that there is a lot of noise on social media around fitness and diet. My protocol and philosophy are less interesting, and far more routine than our tik tokking pals, but I have over the last three years, developed a healthy and sustainable lifestyle that has achieved a huge amount of weight loss and some ridiculous strength gains. 

There was a moment during the process that confirmed my desire and also shifted my perspective somewhat. It was, by my definition, a moment and not a minute. It was amidst that great lesson teacher we endured, the covid lockdown. This particular moment was in November 2020. We were locked down, in the hopes of 'saving Christmas.' I am not sure, entirely from what, Christmas needed to be saved. I was outside doing exercise. I had hired a strength coach and the text ‘Surely, we don’t work out in the snow?’ resulted in me walking a weary path down the hillside to the local common where the damp grass and worms awaited me. 

At this point, I reminded myself, it isn’t actually snowing. The clouds are looming grey and full of the stuff, and I will take a bullet for this one, it smells like snow.

Fifty-five minutes later and I am lying flat on my back on a grubby green mat. The workout is over and the snow is falling steadily. At that moment, as I sat up, a snowflake landed in my eye. If the angel of death had appeared and invited me forward with him, I would have chosen death itself. The thing is though, that moment changed my attitude toward my goal. It became surmountable for the moment and switched from an idea to a destination. A snowflake can do that you know!

Favourites

 

I love the concept of favourites. Perhaps it;s childish, it probably is, but I have a friend who I often name 'My favourite Chris' brief silence followed by top ten, easily top 25. I think he appreciates the bants. I think Madeliene L'Engle has the same sense of whimsy. In her book "Walking on Water' names Thomas Traherne as one of her favourite 17th century poets. He wrote this

'Certainly Adam and Eve in Paradise had not more sweete and curious apprehensions of the world than I when I was a child.'

She goes on to make a well rounded and considered answer about the development of language and the importance of understanding the motivation behind the change in the use of words. I agree with her, but my writing is not so eloquent and to be honest to be able to paraphrase her journey I would need to use more words than her. My recommendation is simple - read her book.

However,  my mind fixated on the practical outworking of the statement 'one of my favourite 17th century poets...' I would struggle to name ten 17th century poets. It set me to thinking, throw away line do that to me a lot. I could say my favourite young children's author - Julia Donaldson, my favourite literary theologian - Frederick Buechner. 

 Beyond that, I have a dream, not nearly as lofty as MLK's, that one day, I would like to use the phrase 'One of my favourite seventeenth century poets' to describe a poet and mean it. To be able to say, with authenticity, I have a favourite amoung my vast knowledge and experience of said authors. I would currently struggle tp name three seventeenth century poets.

 My writing would have such depth if my reading had more depth, and to be honest, my reading could use more breadth. I wonder how I would change if I could write such a thing. Reading changes you, it changes your perspective. Stories give you a window into someone elses life and at time a mirror into your own. 

It makes me realise, that all I can hope, is that there are books and a quiet corner in heaven. There I will sit for a few thousand years with some of the seventeenth century poets. At 3:36 one Friday afternoon, I will announce, which one is my favourite. The two of us will dance together down the streets of gold, blissfully, aware that, it makes no difference.