Dara Torres Makes Me Feel Like A Slacker

That's right. The woman not only qualifies for the Olympics at age 41, she also breaks an American record in the process. Sheesh.

Two reactions beyond just, "Whoa. Holy cow. Good grief."

Could I (or any of you -- in twenty years) have done the same? Answer: Maybe. Depends upon goals, genetics, and circumstances in life. Part of what Dara did is the result of who her parents were, but I think that is just the base. She also had to find herself surrounded by people who supported her in her athletic endeavors, people to watch her baby, help transport her to meets, open the pool for her at 3:00 a.m., and so on. Moreover, she had to give up more than anyone reading this petty little blog will ever know. Someone at her level of athleticism has no life apart from training -- little time for family, job, friends, church, and definitely, DEFINITELY, no partying of any kind -- just so you know.

Second cluster of brain matter -- would I give up what I have to be Dara or any other premier athlete? Honestly, I'm not sure that I would. I enjoy far too much my many and varied interests. I like being an athlete of a certain type, but I also love my family and get a large charge out of doing stuff with my kids. There's also the little fact of my professional life. If I were an athlete pursuing the kinds of things that Dara does, I would not be the teacher I am, the writer I am, the faculty member that I am. I know I'm not all that and a bag of chips, but I dedicate myself to my work in ways that I couldn't if I had the single-minded goals of a Dara Torres.

So, hats off to her. She's my hero of the day. I'm not sure I would necessarily want to be her per se, but I am decidedly inspired by her dedication and work ethic.

Gabrielle

You found the moth on the side of the road,
fluttering faintly with ragged rips in its mottled wings.
”Gabrielle" you named her, why you didn't know,
and picked up the injured creature, carried her to the minivan,
tried to feed her and give her water,
and cried when she pooped and died.

Profound daughter! You discovered that life leaks suffering,
yet you managed to hold off your tears until you told me the whole story.
I held you close and joined your mourning.
"God gives us beauty of all kinds," I said,
"and sometimes it doesn't last."
Theology's comfort has nothing on Dad's lap when you're eight,
so you cried some more and I stroked your back.
Though you hurt so bad over a mere moth,
I grieved more for you, child, because soon
you will not notice mangled moths on roads' shoulders.

The life you wanted


The life you wanted is dead,
pieces of it scattered from childhood to Kansas,
victim of a thousand million gouges, scrapes, and slices.
You can blame television, album-oriented rock, Jesus
and hip modern novels – they all stuffed you
with vile hopeful heroism and pretty principles
-- but they didn't kill that life.
You cut away some of it yourself in a frenzy of pruning
to increase fruit-bearing potential, but other parts fell away,
stunted and starved by your pruning.
You found out too late that potential is just that.
Nobody ever got satisfaction out of potential.
The life you thought you wanted turned out
to be a facade of a real life, dominated by late-night drama, recriminations, desperate
prayer and door-slamming, in the end
a lie.


The life you wanted is dead. Turn around
and embrace the life you have. It is not a dream,
never has been. This life has crises
but not cosmic and existential ones.
This life has conversations, growing children with
their tears and school artwork,. fender-benders and late credit card payments,
constant house repairs, but
you need this life the way your dead one never needed you.
This life lumbers wonderfully on,
not all that sexy and maybe not even noble,
but comfortable, satisfying, alive.