Up to this point, as I’ve been relaunching my blog, I’ve been really consistent with my FollowFriday posts, this week though, I am going to forego my usual FollowFriday post and write from the heart.
As I’ve watched what has gone on in our country and world over the last year or so, I’ve watched people tear each other apart through a computer/phone screen on the web and social media. I’ve watched people become people that if you would have shown them the future they never would have believed they would become. It has been a slow drift, almost imperceptible. As the pandemic started in 2020 we banded together, a true “We are the World” moment. Then, as more and more things happened last year between the tragedies surrounding George Floyd, Ahmad Arbury, & Breonna Taylor, the political tension stirred up by the US Elections, and the pandemic and virus that just won’t go away it seems like people slowly lost their grip on human decency. I’ve watched normally mild-mannered people completely vilify people on the other side of the aisle/issue that has them currently triggered spewing things I would have never thought they’d express.
It breaks my heart to see it and recently, it has gotten me thinking quite a bit about anchors, those unmoving truths that keep us grounded. As a person of faith I’m reminded of verses like Hebrews 6:19a, talking about Jesus and the promises of God the author of the letter to the Hebrews says:
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.
Hebrews 6:19a – NIV
Faith is the most important anchor however, I was also reminded tonight of other anchors that we have in this life to help keep us grounded and I realized that part of my problem lately is I haven’t been consistently working out & lifting weights like I usually do, something that will be remedied in the coming weeks.
I’m reminded of an article I read a really long time ago by punk/rock artist Henry Rollins. I know it’s long, but it’s definitely worth the read.
I believe that the definition of definition is reinvention.
To not be like your parents. To not be like your friends. To be yourself. Completely.
When I was young I had no sense of myself. All I was, was a product of all the fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my parents. The humiliation of teachers calling me âgarbage canâ and telling me Iâd be mowing lawns for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. I was threatened and beaten up for the color of my skin and my size. I was skinny and clumsy, and when others would tease me I didnât run home crying, wondering why. I knew all too well. I was there to be antagonized. In sports I was laughed at. A spaz. I was pretty good at boxing but only because the rage that filled my every waking moment made me wild and unpredictable. I fought with some strange fury. The other boys thought I was crazy.
I hated myself all the time. As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, carry myself with the ease of knowing that I wasnât going to get pounded in the hallway between classes.
Years passed and I learned to keep it all inside. I only talked to a few boys in my grade. Other losers. Some of them are to this day the greatest people I have ever known. Hang out with a guy who has had his head flushed down a toilet a few times, treat him with respect, and youâll find a faithful friend forever. But even with friends, school sucked. Teachers gave me hard time. I didnât think much of them either.
Then came Mr. Pepperman, my adviser. He was a powerfully built Vietnam veteran, and he was scary. No one ever talked out of turn in his class. Once one kid did and Mr. P. lifted him off the ground and pinned him to the blackboard.
Mr. P. could see that I was in bad shape, and one Friday in October he asked me if I had ever worked out with weights. I told him no. He told me that I was going to take some of the money that I had saved and buy a hundred-pound set of weights at Sears. As I left his office, I started to think of things I would say to him on Monday when he asked about the weights that I was not going to buy. Still, it made me feel special. My father never really got that close to caring. On Saturday I bought the weights, but I couldnât even drag them to my momâs car. An attendant laughed at me as he put them on a dolly.
Monday came and I was called into Mr. P.âs office after school. He said that he was going to show me how to work out. He was going to put me on a program and start hitting me in the solar plexus in the hallway when I wasnât looking. When I could take the punch we would know that we were getting somewhere. At no time was I to look at myself in the mirror or tell anyone at school what I was doing.
In the gym he showed me ten basic exercises. I paid more attention than I ever did in any of my classes. I didnât want to blow it. I went home that night and started right in. Weeks passed, and every once in a while Mr. P. would give me a shot and drop me in the hallway, sending my books flying. The other students didnât know what to think. More weeks passed, and I was steadily adding new weights to the bar. I could sense the power inside my body growing. I could feel it.
Right before Christmas break I was walking to class, and from out of nowhere Mr. Pepperman appeared and gave me a shot in the chest. I laughed and kept going. He said I could look at myself now. I got home and ran to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. I saw a body, not just the shell that housed my stomach and my heart. My biceps bulged. My chest had definition. I felt strong. It was the first time I can remember having a sense of myself. I had done something and no one could ever take it away. You couldnât say **** to me.
It took me years to fully appreciate the value of the lessons I have learned from the Iron. I used to think that it was my adversary, that I was trying to lift that which does not want to be lifted. I was wrong. When the Iron doesnât want to come off the mat, itâs the kindest thing it can do for you. If it flew up and went through the ceiling, it wouldnât teach you anything. Thatâs the way the Iron talks to you. It tells you that the material you work with is that which you will come to resemble. That which you work against will always work against you.
It wasnât until my late twenties that I learned that by working out I had given myself a great gift. I learned that nothing good comes without work and a certain amount of pain. When I finish a set that leaves me shaking, I know more about myself. When something gets bad, I know it canât be as bad as that workout.
I used to fight the pain, but recently this became clear to me: pain is not my enemy; it is my call to greatness. But when dealing with the Iron, one must be careful to interpret the pain correctly. Most injuries involving the Iron come from ego. I once spent a few weeks lifting weight that my body wasnât ready for and spent a few months not picking up anything heavier than a fork. Try to lift what youâre not prepared to and the Iron will teach you a little lesson in restraint and self-control.
I have never met a truly strong person who didnât have self-respect. I think a lot of inwardly and outwardly directed contempt passes itself off as self-respect: the idea of raising yourself by stepping on someoneâs shoulders instead of doing it yourself. When I see guys working out for cosmetic reasons, I see vanity exposing them in the worst way, as cartoon characters, billboards for imbalance and insecurity. Strength reveals itself through character. It is the difference between bouncers who get off strong-arming people and Mr. Pepperman.
Muscle mass does not always equal strength. Strength is kindness and sensitivity. Strength is understanding that your power is both physical and emotional. That it comes from the body and the mind. And the heart.
Yukio Mishima said that he could not entertain the idea of romance if he was not strong. Romance is such a strong and overwhelming passion, a weakened body cannot sustain it for long. I have some of my most romantic thoughts when I am with the Iron. Once I was in love with a woman. I thought about her the most when the pain from a workout was racing through my body. Everything in me wanted her. So much so that sex was only a fraction of my total desire. It was the single most intense love I have ever felt, but she lived far away and I didnât see her very often. Working out was a healthy way of dealing with the loneliness. To this day, when I work out I usually listen to ballads.
I prefer to work out alone. It enables me to concentrate on the lessons that the Iron has for me. Learning about what youâre made of is always time well spent, and I have found no better teacher. The Iron had taught me how to live.
Life is capable of driving you out of your mind. The way it all comes down these days, itâs some kind of miracle if youâre not insane. People have become separated from their bodies. They are no longer whole. I see them move from their offices to their cars and on to their suburban homes. They stress out constantly, they lose sleep, they eat badly. And they behave badly. Their egos run wild; they become motivated by that which will eventually give them a massive stroke. They need the Iron mind.
Through the years, I have combined meditation, action, and the Iron into a single strength. I believe that when the body is strong, the mind thinks strong thoughts. Time spent away from the Iron makes my mind degenerate. I wallow in a thick depression. My body shuts down my mind. The Iron is the best antidepressant I have ever found. There is no better way to fight weakness than with strength. Once the mind and body have been awakened to their true potential, itâs impossible to turn back.
The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that youâre a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs.
Friends may come and go.
But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.
Iron and The Soul – Henry Rollins – originally written for Details Magazine
In this time of turmoil where people seem to be losing their minds around you, who and what are you anchoring yourself to?
Do you need to re-evaluate your anchors and what you’re tying yourself to?
