On that hill was where my first-ever sports injury was confirmed, at least, confirmed for me mentally (the x-rays later gave definitive proof). It was also the first time outside of ballet that I learned a little something about pushing myself - and about when to stop.
I didn't stop that day. Nor had I stopped at the countless practices leading up to that point when I knew something was wrong. When I reached the middle of that hill and I felt something give in my leg - the same thing that had been nagging me for weeks - when my body said, "Stop", I said, "Fuck you." I went. My coach was there telling me to keep going, and so was the competitor inside my head.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I stopped that day. Or, even more so, had I stopped weeks before. If that bone hadn't broken. If the injury and subsequent time off hadn't forced me to ask bigger questions and make choices - hard choices - about where my life would go. Was I a runner or a dancer? An artist or an athlete? Could I be both?
Had I not fallen through the finish line that day at Green Lane, would I still have chosen dance? Would I have been able to choose both? And where, precisely, would I be now? Of course, these are questions I can't answer - I'll never know, really. But they're questions I consider all the time. On a daily basis lately.
Life really does have a way of coming full circle. Being injured now, 15 years later (wow...time sneaks up on you...), I'm in much the same place. Asking, again, "Am I an artist or an athlete? Can I be both?" Sitting here sidelined, these questions have been rolling around in my head the past few weeks. Wanting desperately to make the right decision this time - the decision I won't question for years to come. Wondering which one that is. Hoping to discover that I can have both. Somehow, anyway. Sadly, the answers aren't any more obvious now that I'm older.
I didn't win the race that day in Green Lane Park. I don't think I've won anything since, either. But I've also never tried. What I took home that day, in the bag with our league plaque, was a whole lot of what if's and should-have-could have-would-haves. And a bunch of tangled questions on top. I took away the ego boost or "street cred" of having run a race on a broken leg - and the looks on the faces of the boys I still managed to beat.
At the end of the day, though, I've come to learn that none of that really matters. Not the medals or the plaques - not even the emotional boost - though I would be lying to say that part didn't feel kind of awesome. I would also be lying if I said I didn't want to win. I'll never not be a competitor.
What matters, though...what really, truly matters...is the part that can't be put into words. It's the compulsion - the "have to". There are days when I really just "have to" sit down and play my piano or my flute. Or start a new painting. Or take a dance class. Or, of course, perform. In the same way, most days, I "have to" run. It's not really even an option not to.
Right now, I don't have any more answers than I did 15 years ago. At least, not exactly. But I think the answer to the question "Can I do both?" Is, "Yes." And it's because I have to. Most of the great artists and athletes of our time have learned to juggle multiple passions (if I began a list here, this post would go on for days), so why can't I? There seems to be a connection. Something about the mind of an artist and the drive of a competitor. I'm just missing the link.
So, I guess the real question is where do they intersect? These things that I do...these things that I love? Where is that great big seam that connects them all? That's the win I'm looking for. And when I find it, I'm installing a zipper.
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