I recently stopped going to the gym. Magically, my back, shoulder and arm muscles have all reduced in size. Someone who hadn’t been paying attention wouldn’t even notice that I’m skinny, again. Some have noticed, however.
When I was working out and getting bigger, the progress was remarkable, and some took notice. For them it seemed as though some magical thing had happened to me and transformed me from my previously skinny self to somewhat less skinny and slightly muscular. C’est incroyable! I will tell you, however, that it isn’t that incredible. 3 days a week for only about 45 minutes each time I would grunt and groan at the gym and then I would eat enough carbs and protein and fat to sustain and even gain a bit. It boils down to dedication to a goal and then…PRACTICE.
I don’t like to practice. I like to plan. I plan to write a novel. However, in order to do that, I need to practice writing and conceptualizing and criticizing myself and re-writing and all the battles that one has to endure in order to complete a novel of any significant length, coherence and readability. The admiration and, yes, even envy, that I feel when reading another’s finished work and reveling in their mastery of the language cannot overcome the inclination I have to give up at the earliest stages. Just like my muscle building.
I had worked out for about a month and half, showing great progress and able to lift more and more as well as having less back pain during the day and more endurance in all my activities. But for several reasons, all of which work in a sinister kind of conspiracy, I have now been inactive for the better part of 2 weeks, sedentary, eating less, sleeping more and finding the inspiration to maintain or even improve my health slowly slipping away. Thank God I’m still free of alcohol and cigarettes or I’d be mired in an even deeper morass of guilt, inertia and spiraling downward in all areas once again.
It’s that way for me sometimes. Sometimes it’s not.
I am a musician. I think I’m quite a good musician and vocalist. It took hours and days and weeks and months and years of practice to get to the level I’m currently at. In fairness I haven’t performed as much on keys in the last few years as before, so I’m sure that’s affected my abilities in that regard in no small measure. But vocally and musically I’m still able to perform at a high level even on a nightly basis. It certainly didn’t become possible for me to perform at this level after a week or two of practice. I’d dare to say that it took the better part of several, many, grinding, frustrating, tedious years of practice and reiteration and devotion to detail and sore throats and late nights before I was able to consistently produce the level of music that I could be proud of.
For many of those watching and listening to a musician, it may seem incredible, impossible even, or perhaps magical. In some respects they may be right. Because the magic of art is that it conceals those blessed inner workings and suspends the appreciator in a world of wonder. The vigor with which an artist pursues their craft can only be appreciated by those who have tried and failed at something, or those who have achieved “magical” results in their own pursuits. Only they can know the delirium of 18 hour sessions, the consistent pursuit of excellence and have known the utter frustration of the inability to reach that ever elusive pinnacle, where ever it is sought.
Similar to the way in which I can appreciate just how many hours the well-cut bodybuilder has spent honing his muscles, the countless miles covered by the long-distance runner, or the oddball beauty of a Picasso.
When I see a master performance by a musician or performer, I sometimes get odd looks from those around me when I’m enthusiastically showing my appreciation for what I’ve just witnessed. My feeling is that, knowing what I do, and knowing how hard they’ve worked to get to that level, I can work just an infinitesimal fraction of that in order to acknowledge their hard work, artistry, persistence and courage.
Because for me, that’s the muscle behind the magic.
