Kites and Trees

A little over a week ago, I decided to take up running, with the goal of running 2 miles at a 6:12 average sometime in the reasonable future.

Sensing that this is not expected behavior, friends have repeatedly asked me why I, someone so foreign to the concept of exercise for exercise's sake, decided to take on this challenge. My usual response has been that "I don't know"--true, to some degree; I had an inkling of it all, but I had no way of helping the average person understand why the goal I've set is so precise and important. Let me attempt to do that now.

In elementary school, inspired by Charlie Brown, I would go downstairs to the park by our apartment building and try to fly a kite. It was unusual behavior in Asia, made no less unusual by the fact that kite-flying is an activity best saved for the real kite-flying venues, not some dinky little park surrounded by buildings so tall that our kites would never soar above them. On days when TV told me that a strong gale was upon us (they signaled it with an inverted 'T'), I would stand there with my Toys R' Us-bought kite, and run the fifty yards of lawn I had so that I could get my kite up, while making sure I didn't run into the random bushes that were scattered across that landscape. Surprisingly, I actually succeeded a fair number of times, and would marvel at the way my dinky little kite could actually soar some 20 feet into the air...and stay there. It would never go higher than the 30-storey apartments that enclosed the little park, but I didn't need it to; any higher and I thought I'd be interfering with airplanes. I was happy simply for not encountering a kite-eating tree.

My sister would join me on these little kite escapades. One of us would hold the spool, and the other would run with the kite to see if we could get it off the ground. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes we'd be left with a mess of string to untangle. It was fun. We had a double-tethered fighter kite to start. When we realized that that wasn't all that great for the wind conditions we had, we bought a much simpler one, not all that different from Charlie Brown's (except that it was blue and had some sort of cartoon animal on it). When that one broke (thanks, kite-eating bushes), we went out and got another fighter kite, since that was what Toys R' Us had that week when we went there with our dad. Those were the days when the divorce was still being finalized, and we could actually expect him to be there on most Saturdays. At least that's how I remember it...for all I know, it could be the days when we'd only get two days' notice that he was going to come by and take us out. He'd claim he had just gotten into town, but other sources would let us know he'd been in town for a month and was just getting ready to leave.

I digress. As fun as it was to launch kites together, my sister and I would still do individual launches when the other was not around. It was kind of funny when she came back from one of those individual runs...it was almost a given that the kite string would look like elaborate macrame (or macaroni!), and we'd spend an hour or so undoing them (as goofy as sis was with kite-flying, she always lay claim to being a whiz with knots). If that should fail, we just cut the string and redid the kite itself; we most certainly had plenty of string left, flying at those measly altitudes.

One day, sis came home. Kite in shambles. Crying. I can't remember why I didn't make more of it at the time...perhaps I simply didn't realize that there was a tinge of sadness in her that ran deeper than broken kites and failed launches. Sometime later, Mom told us the story. Or perhaps I overheard it while it was being explained to the other grownups. Sis had been down there, Charlie Brown-ing her kite without much worry, when she spotted a little kid in the distance watching. I guess it was the first time he'd seen a kite, and he must've been both puzzled and fascinated by sis' attempts to put it in the sky. His dad soon came by, and took to explaining what a kite was. In time, dad told little boy that he, too, would be able to fly a kite soon. They'd go out to the wild hills of the north penninsula, where the winds were always there--strong, too--and they'd see a lot of other kite flyers, too...box kites, caterpillars, elaborate works of art...a real kite-flying destination. Dad and little boy never had to say those last words. It wouldn't have mattered to kids like sis and me, for we wouldn't have known the difference between 20 feet and 500 feet. Heck...we'd probably joke that a kite launched that high would be a pain to reel back in. But the comment hurt sis. It would have hurt me.

On the days when I've stepped onto the running track this week to give my best shot at simply running two miles period, I've always seen moms and dads and little kids running beside them. The kids sometimes look at me with a glint of determination in their eyes, and then start running beside me to see if their little legs can keep up. I smile at them, and after my laps, I sit there and watch their parents tell them about what they'll someday be able to do. About why running's good for them, and how amazing it is that they've managed to scamper up the same steps that mom and dad have tread. I sit there, winded and weary, and wonder about what life would be like if I'd been one of those kids.

I wasn't. That is not a fault. Mom loved us dearly, and whatever time she had to spare was ours. I learned how to learn by osmosis, listening in while she tutored other kids to pay the bills, and picking up plenty of insights, all the while reading my Michael Jordan biographies and trying to play video games without sound. But in every athletic pursuit, I got used to being alone. Kicking a soccer ball against a wall downstairs for the satisfying crash that it'd make when it hit the wall; wondering why I was such a liability in every team sport; setting up the high jump and trying to convince the freshmen that they could indeed do a fosbury flop (I'd started by doing what classmates termed "the J-dive" somersault back in third grade). I didn't have that encouragement, that nurturing. In many cases, I remember other people telling me how stupid I looked, back in when I was in love with my hook shot and thought I was pretty good at it, or when I found that the J-dive, crowd-pleaser though it was, made me dizzy afterwards. And couldn't get me over the heights that others were clearing simply by hurdling the bar.

I wonder what life would be like if I'd had that kind of family...one that could let me know what I'm doing well and help me work on the things I didn't have yet. One that could build up my confidence again after one of those brutal days on the playground and make sure I knew where to turn to for help for that one last bit of wisdom and brilliance. I didn't have that, and it's made me into a different kind of person. I have gained virtues that I would not have had in that kind of family...picked up abilities I believe are rare and precious and needed in the world. And by the grace of God, I have an inkling of how they will be put to use as I go through life, so that I may better others in a way that others cannot. I have no cause for lament, no reason to put God on the dock for a life so exquisitely decorated with hope and blessings amidst the chaos.

I know somebody who has had that kind of family. And she's turned out the way I thought I might have turned out, too. In typical frail human fashion, all those past longings are coming up to the surface, making me forget the beauty and purpose of the life that I was given as I catch glimpses of the life I once wanted so dearly. That cannot stand. It will keep me from fulfilling my calling, blind me to the gifts and assets that I have been granted, and make me squander this precious and intricately woven life that I have been asked to live out. I cannot let that stand.

I never had a parent who could show me how to run. I never had the support of a team that could encourage me and build me up. I never had the chance to compete against others and learn from my failures. But I think I now have other tools and resources that can substitute for those blessings that my dear friend had. And so amidst some perverse longing for a life I never had, I'm trying to prove to myself that the life I was given is not lesser than that which I longed for; it's just...different. I may fail at this. I may never actually hit that 6:12 mile. But I'll get closer to it. My eyes will gradually regain their focus and remember the precious virtues I have been given, and by then, perhaps it will no longer matter to me.

But for now, I run.

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4/22/08
It's funny looking back at this post 1.5 years later, and seeing how low I was during that season of life, and how sweeping my statements were. It's true, I did have to grow up with a lot more independence than some...but I was not forced to grow up as quickly as some others are.

I ended up breaking the 6 minute mile barrier in 3 months. Came in at 5:45. And the things I learned during that season of dryness are now assets that I'll be carrying forward for the rest of my life.

The script keeps getting more elegant...