In my December post titled “How to Date a Triathlete,” I talked about our tendency to become jaded in adulthood, and how our abandonment of wonderment and big dreaming becomes an accepted fact of life as we exit adolescence and enter the murky realm of grown-upness.
I also mentioned my desire to resist this state of mind, and how training for endurance races has been a powerful influence in my ability to maintain a childlike sense of possibility well into my 20s.
Recently, I stumbled across a video on YouTube by one of my favorite personalities in the vegan running community, Tim VanOrden. Tim, also affectionately known as “TVO,” has served as an extraordinarily influential pioneer in the raw vegan community, as well as an instrumental figure within the running community. A 9-time U.S. masters track/cross-country champion and snowshoe racing whiz, TVO is one of the few visionaries who have put the whole concept of eating a vegan diet for improved athletic performance on the map.
TVO makes these great YouTube vids–most of them shorts–which are entirely comprised of “video selfies” while he’s coasting down a mountain trait in Vermont, mind abuzz with that characteristic clarity of thought that hits runners 5, 10, 15 miles into their runs. I love how he unabashedly whips out his video recorder and videotapes his disheveled, winded, sweaty self to share the tidbits of wisdom he gleans while out in nature. There is so much truth to what TVO has to offer. A true philosopher, his pep talks speak to everyone, and apply to universal life experiences–vegan or not, runner or not.
The video, titled “The Delusional Beginnings of Running Raw,” does a beautiful job of elucidating the concept of remaining open to limitless possibility no matter one’s age or past experiences.
In case you’re not keen on watching TVO’s video selfie, here’s the script:
“When I started this journey, I was a painter. I was adding to the canvas. I was only looking at possibility: to see what’s possible; to be what’s possible. And at that time, I believed anything was possible.
But I’ve been running for six years now, and I’ve been tested again and again, and fallen again and again. And I keep getting back up and I keep getting better. But instead of continuing my path as a painter, I’ve become a sculptor. And instead of adding to a canvas, I’ve begun to take away from a stone, chisel away, removing possibility with each nick of the knife.
And every time I make a mistake and knock off more of the stone than I intended, I know I have even less possibility to work with, and I have to reduce and change the ultimate sculpture. And I’ve found myself, now at forty-four, highly defined, and limited with this sense that less is possible because I know more. I chipped away at the stone and I see what’s left, and it keeps getting smaller. The ceiling has gotten lower. I don’t see the same possibility that I saw at the beginning of this journey, which was an Olympic team. And maybe that was delusional. But seeing it as a possibility, whether it was a reality or not, got me in the game, it got me in action, it excited me. And now that the ceiling has come way down, I still see myself improving but it’s not nearly as exciting because that ceiling’s not far away. I don’t have much room to grow.
I’ve got to find a way to get back into the painter mode and add to my training, add to my life, add to my thinking, and add to my abilities. Because I know I’m not done yet, but there’s a part of my mind that’s trying to convince me that I am. I can’t fight that thought. I can’t chip that thought away. I have to add other thoughts. I have to simply paint over it.
In life, often, we try to chip away at our negative thoughts. We try to remove them. We punish ourselves. We’re hard-wired to be sculptors and to chip away at life, and chip away at possibility. But I think the greatest gift of the human mind, the thing that separates the human mind from the minds of other creatures, is our ability to paint. This is trained out of us somewhere in childhood or adolescence. We’re taught to face the “real world” and start chipping away, and get the job, and get the house, and get the family, and get the car and just settle in to this reduced mode of living, rather than being that child who paints possibility with every stroke.
There’s a story about Winston Churchill. He was driving through the country one day when he came across a woman staring at a blank canvas. She was looking out at a pastoral landscape, which was beautiful. Winston walked up and he said, “What’s the problem?” and she said, “I’m not sure where to start.” So he took her paintbrush, dipped it in black paint, and put a big black mark across her canvas. He said, “There. Now you’ve started.”
And that’s how life is. Sometimes life gives us this big black mark. And rather than chipping away and saying, “Oh, we’ve got a black mark, the canvas is ruined, we can’t use it anymore,” you can add to it. What can I do with that black mark? What possibility can I discover? How can I take paint and add? How can I take thought and add to this? Make it better? Improve upon it?
Think about that. How to add to your life. How to add possibility back in to your life. Not by getting rid of things. But just by painting a different color over things. Or next to them. Or turning them into a new design. Black line—what can I do with a black line? Every tree that I’m running by has black lines in it. Every root that I’m jumping over as I make this video has black lines in it.
Paint with them. Create a forest of possibility.”