It feels like a crime saying this, in this the age of gratitude and happiness projects, but life feels really stupid sometimes.
Shame on the person who wakes up in the morning and thinks,
My life feels stupid.
Time to make the donuts. We do the same thing every day.
What is it really all about?
But, honestly, I do wake up feeling that way sometimes.
I even felt this way, possibly even more, when I was a professional snowboarder. I spent month-long training camps at the same slopeside hotel--usually the Breckenridge Hilton-- eating, sleeping, training, watching video of myself training, working out, eating, sleeping, repeat.
Not only that, but I put on the same uniform-- first layer, speedsuit, ski pants, fleece, jacket, boots, helmet, goggles, gloves --day after day. I rode up the hill on a chairlift. I rode back down through a race course. I checked my time at the bottom, then rode back up and came back down the course, seeking a new line that would improve my time by three tenths of a second. If my time was less than 6% slower than the boys' time, I was within range.
Why do I always see symbolism in things?
The only difference between then and now is I had a coach telling me how I was doing, urging me on, bolstering that which needed to be bolstered.
I bet you never imagined that something as seemingly glamorous as a competitive sport career could feel like factory work sometimes. And the product is you.
But still, now that I've been "domesticated," the same sorts of things shake me out of my stupor and put life back into relief. It's usually art or nature.
Like this morning, on my gray walk, when that lone Canada goose flew, directly North, over our heads and flapped determinedly into the distant gray sky, calling, forlornly, to someone, anyone, wait for me, as it flew.
And, voilá, life was unexpected again, and I was remembering the number of times we were startled from our stupor by a flock of massive, honking swans flying just above the rooftops of our sleepy French village, so close you could hear the rhythmic pumping of their fluid wings as they flapped their way towards an instinctual destination.
That was a beautiful thing.