Karmen Wiid

I have decided to do two crazy things this year: run a marathon and write a novel.

I’ve been running for two years now and writing since before I could properly read, but it was only over the past month of running and writing every day that I realised how similar the two activities are. Both require embracing and pushing through exhaustion (mental and physical, on both fronts), and both offer an exquisite way of being in the world that is more present, observant and poetic. Yes, you heard me – running is poetic. The feeling of the wind in your hair, the rhythm of your stride, the sensation of leaving everything behind and just moving for the sake of it. It’s beautiful. Christopher McDougall writes in Born to Run that running is the most basic human art form. And what makes it even more remarkable is that it is so accessible. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need expensive gear or huge parks; you just need yourself and the audacious belief that you can do what you did naturally as a kid. Again, it’s the same with writing. We’re all creative when we’re young. We don’t fear making mistakes or getting criticised for our finger paintings. We just create – unselfconsciously. I have found that running and writing are like breathing, but before you remember your own wild, you must relearn how to breathe again.

Some days it is difficult. When I feel sluggish at the beginning of a run, I have to remind myself that I have done this many times before. I know that my body will warm up after a few minutes and give me what I ask of it. I read something recently that I don’t think I’ll ever forget: “Your body will only give you what you ask of it. Ask a lot, and it will surprise you.” Similarly, when my brain feels sluggish at the beginning of a writing session, I have to remind myself that I have done this many times before, and I know that if I just sit down and place my fingers over the keyboard, the words will come. The trick is to get moving first. Start, even though you are not ready because if you don’t start, you won’t ever be ready. That advice counts for taking on big goals, but it also applies to the daily practice of working towards those goals. The Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami, knew all this before I did. I recently read his beautiful memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. In it, he muses on his life as a writer and a runner and how the two fields intersect in beautiful and surprising ways. Chapter two of his book is titled, How to be a running novelist. Perfect, I thought, a step-by-step guide on how to fulfil my dreams. How much more niche can you get, right? Turns out, it wasn’t a blueprint for success. In fact, he didn’t even dole out advice in its traditional form. He just wrote about the regular flow of his days: run at dawn, write during the day, and get to bed early. No fully detailed training regimen or restrictive plot outlines. He was just easing into the groove of who he is – a runner and a writer. It’s not that there were no difficult days, but he knew they were part of the journey. When you’re truly living out your highest identity, the actions don’t become easier but deciding to do them do. Eventually, it’s no longer a decision. When you get out of bed and lace up your running shoes or open your computer, you don’t debate whether you should do it or not. It’s simple, like breathing. Not at the beginning, but eventually, when you learn how to fall in love with the process, the progress and the exhaustion.

Someone recently told me that if you lick your finger and stick it in the sand, you’ll find your finger covered with about seventy to eighty grains of sand. That is about the number of years in a human life. But eternity is represented by the whole beach. In fact, it is all the beaches in the entire world. The story was meant to impress on me how small and insignificant one’s life, problems, and dreams are in the greater scheme of things. However, if stretched to the fullest, this metaphor is an excellent portrayal of why most people feel unfilled. If you believe that you only have eighty years, give or take, and what you do in those years won’t matter either way, then you are bound to waste the little time you have. But, if you believe that you have the potential to make a significant impact with the little you have, then you’ll jump out of bed each morning with purpose and a sense of urgency. Likewise, your precious years don’t have to be grains of sand. Sand sticks between kids’ toes and in their nostrils. It gets trampled on and forgotten. But, if you lick your finger and raise it up to the sky, you might just find a single star sticking to it. You can choose, do you want a life of eighty or so grains of sand, or do you want to be audacious enough to reach up and have a life that is a glowing star, a life that lights up the darkness for yourself and others, a life that keeps shining long after your death.

Everybody wants a glowing life, right? So, how do you get it? My answer: follow the burn. That which excites you so much that your chest quite literally feels on fire will lead you to your glow. That which ignites the fire of fear in you, the fear of failure, criticism, and possibilities beckoning just outside your comfort zone, will lead you to your glow. When I run, my chest is on fire. When I write, my mind is a furnace. And when I live like that every day, my joy is a fireplace keeping me and those around me warm. Paradoxically, when I follow the fire, I am most at peace because that is when I feel most like myself. That burning feeling is a torch carried by the person you can become, and it’s showing you the way. Follow your burn, and you’ll find your glow.