I am writing from the far side of a minor life altering event: my hard drive crashed. I lost work and photos that were important to me (and yes, I can see clearly now the wisdom of more frequent backups). This is the second time I will write an “Intervals” entry. I wish I could remember all the things I wrote the first time (a memoir of a visit from a friend, comments on cousins). My laptop crashed in the midst of saving it.
I am also writing in the midst of a nauseated fever. Really weird; this is a replay of an illness I had a few weeks ago (around the time of the crash). I wonder if the repetition is significant somehow. A friend told me once that he believed deja vu’s (my own word choice) were about second chances. Opportunities to learn what was missed the first time around. I like that concept. I believe in second chances too, or at least in the idea that the universe contains many more Play It Again Sams than it does Limited One Time Only Offers.
So, intervals. This is a word with layers of meaning (at least for me). I am thinking now of the sporty sort of intervals. Interval training.
When they train using intervals, runners (and other athletes) increase their strength, speed, and endurance by working out in vigorous spurts of action, interspersed with more moderate exercise. You sprint a half mile, jog a perky quarter, sprint another half, jog another quarter, and so on, until you’re ready to faint or puke. And you will be sooner than you think. I know; I’ve tried it, even though I am So Not Sporty. Not fast, not graceful…but I love the euphoria of rapid heart beats and accelerated oxygen intake and bonding with the passing scenery. Usually, my morning jog is perfect for me. It doesn’t require tactical genius to put one foot in front of the other in a mildly rhythmic canter. Still, it would be cool to be strong and fast enough to keep up with my sister Leah (who has actually run marathons). Or even just to feel and look relatively light on my feet. Hence my interest in interval training.
I’ve thought about it, and I can see that at first glance, intervals might not be an apt representation of healthy living. Too bad, because I was getting attached to Intervals As Metaphor (oh joy, oh wonder, a symbol for the Good Life!). But no. No, you get There (wherever “There” is) faster and with more serenity if you just keep up a dignified, steady, consistent pace. One sure step at a time. People can count on you; your children and neighbors know when and where to expect you. Your Tupperware and spray starch stay exactly where they belong. Contrarily-wise, intervals (at first glance) look unbalanced, chaotic, and unhealthy. Think of Van Gogh, who, during a moody lapse between somewhat frenzied spates of artistic brilliance (ok, some people called it craziness) cut off his own ear. He lived and died tragically in poverty-stricken intervals, never knowing (in this world) how far his legacy would eventually reach. We assume he felt a Failure, that he perceived he hadn’t Made It.
But I tend to live more on the Van Gogh side of the spectrum than on steady and consistent, and so I am inclined to defend both our positions (mine and Van Gogh’s). While I can see the value of steadiness and consistency (regular back ups would be smart, for instance), I am frankly pleased by the results of my little intervals. Energetic, colorful brush strokes, broken by short periods of quiet or rest. I’ve enjoyed fruit and flowers from my gardens (and gardening is ever a sweaty, exhausting tumult ). I like looking at my walls, covered with paintings of my kids and sisters and flowers (I paint best in happy right brain sprees). I love my house, conceived and executed in sometimes short and sometimes long but always frantic spurts. And while the process is intense and absorbed, I love to write. I’m glad that I’ve written. I anticipate writing much more (which means that sometimes, supper will be an inefficient scramble). And I can live with the lapses too (except ones like this last winter; I never want to relive that inertia). Bantering with my children (once upon a time I was rocking them to sleep), chatting with a friend, getting lost in a book. I’m even grateful for the results of sporadic dailiness; it is good to have the dishes done and the floors swept and my bed neat.
Anyway, I’m not really very steady. Certainly (perhaps sadly) not consistent. Nevertheless, both my ears remain intact, and one day, I will have the strength and endurance for rapturous, wholesome flight.
