Y A B150N?

As I walked into the room it was the first thing I noticed.  I suppose he purposefully chose that spot so that all that entered would have their eyes drawn to it.  I'm certain of it.  He was a man of the theater and was always concerned about placement.  Like most things he said or did, you always knew there was a story lurking just under the surface.  Some nugget of information that you knew he wanted to share, but would rather have you reach on your own.  He admired Socrates, and if you spent enough time around him you started getting the feeling that Socrates never drank the Hemlock, but instead sneaked off, and had somehow ended up here.  He told us about Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Joyce, Chekov, Hemmingway.  He was an English teacher, although looking back, he never taught us.  This isn't to say we didn't learn.  No,  we learned plenty, however, he never taught us as much at point us towards the path of experience.  Much like the twisted figures in Plato's cave, we sat there.  He didn't breaks our bonds, or drag us from the supposed safety of our gloomy world.  Rather he simply handed us a key, and told us of another world.

While labeled as an English class, sitting in his room was one of my earliest, and probably many of my peer's experience with Philosophy.  Or classical music.  Or archaeological psychology.  Or dadist paintings.  Or obscure 50s science fiction.  Or Sixteenth century Sonnets.  Or obscure stage shows.  Absurdly enough, which would be appropriate for his class, when we had a substitute we ended up doing more actual work than when he was in.  But we learned much less.  We would sit and listen to him explain the significance of lions in Old Man in the Sea, or how the opening notes of Beethoven's 5th were a reaffirmation of life, or the importance of when Henry Jones senior called his son Indiana instead of "Junior", or the use of clothes, cloth and rope as imagery in MacBeth - these days were always more informative than doing a crossword trying to fit characters from the Divind Comedy into the grid, or filling in the blanks with the names of Greek and Roman historical figures.  The class should have been called: "Subtext: Finding the Meaning in Life."

Class was easily derailed, but it never seemed like a minute was wasted.  One minute we'd be analyzing hartless hinds, and how it was a phrase that worked on multiple levels, and the next we'd be discussing Waiting for Godot.  I don't think any of us appreciated, or even now fully appreciate the role he played in preparing us for what waited us after we stepped outside of class.  The thing that always struck me was his perceptiveness.  He seemed to be able to read people as well as any book, even when it seemed like he wasn't paying attention.  Connections seemed to float out of the air, and his class was the only time I've ever witness students learning during roll call.

It didn't take long for the question to arise.  But that was how he designed it.  The poster's location was no mistake.  Neither was it's crude image.  Something that used to roam the Earth before men developed culture.  As this was the beginning of culture.  A picture of a bison.  "Why a bison?"  read a classmate, the words sitting lazily beneath the representation of the creature.  "Why not?"  was the reply.  We had barely finished roll call, which took two days, but the discussion that followed would set the standard for the rest of the year. He walked over to the chalk board.

"A"  "B"

Alpha,  bet.  The foundations of language.  He flipped the "A", and extended the crossbar, turning it into a crude bison head.  Next he rotated the "B", modifying it slightly to make it look like a primitive hut.  Somewhere in a cave thousands of years ago, someone decided to engage in prehistoric grafitti.  Indeed, history wouldn't exist without this grafitti.  From a picture of a bison, it became simplified to just a crude head.  A mark of trade.  The hut became a mark of population.  The beginning of culture.  The beginning of the written word.  The beginning of history.  All because of some marking in a cave.  Much like the Promethues who discovered fire, or realized the potential of the wheel, the artist who decided to decorate the inside of that cave altered human history - by creating it.

Much like fire or the wheel, language is a tool.  We often don't think of it as such, but we implement it and it modifies us.  Language subconsciously rewires how we view, interact, and interpret our world.  Even right now, you most likely are hearing yourself read this in your head.  Or have an inner monologue about examining yourself reading this passage.  It plays a key role in the conceptualization of one's self.  Much like any other tool, it can be used in a variety of ways.  Like the exacting precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel in a dictionary, to the flowing of prose, to the butchered semantics of text type; language reflects its use and user.  Function following form, or vice versa?  Perhaps neither.  While it may be obvious to most that it bridges the gap between individual consciences, language also plays an equally important, if perhaps not more interesting role.  It creates the framework around which we analyze our own mind - our thoughts, dreams, realizations, hopes, desires, musings, and beliefs.  If is both a tool of simplification and complication.  Pulling in two different directions it helps boil abstract concepts down to a form that can easily be shared between people, as well as taking a simple concept and showing the complex detail that isn't apparent upon a cursory glance.  Since time immortal, poets, painters, priests, and the general public have been concern with a simple four letter word.  The Greeks recognized its complexity and created alternate words for the variations.  While everyone may be referring to the same thing in much the same way, the individual experiences and conceptualizations may differ.  However language allows these divergent principles to be brought together.  It functions as our consciousness' lens to the external world and a bridge to others.  And all from such humble beginnings.

"Why a bison?"
"Why not?" he replied.

If you take the high road and I take the low road

If there ever was an important lesson to learn in life it's this: ultimately you're responsible for yourself, and really only yourself.  I don't mean this in an hyper-individualistic sense, but rather that as individuals, we are ultimately responsible for our own choices and decisions.  However, herein lies the frustration.  Autonomy carries with it a limiting factor.  Just as you are the captain of your own destiny, those other ships twinkling in the night have someone else at the helm.  Persuasion, trickery, coercion, and deceit are fundamentally limited as they ultimately rely on the consent, mistake, acceptance, or acquiesce of another.  Conflict is a product of individualism.  It's inevitable.  Rarely do people's plans mesh perfectly together; and if they are - pinch yourself, you're probably just dreaming.  It's not a bad thing.  Much like wind disturbing water makes it seem like the sky is dancing on the water's surface, variety makes life all the more interesting.  A lot more interesting than the alternative, lockstep restriction.

Besides, there's not much we could do about it anyways.  Imagine how astronomical it would be to get everyone to agree on everything.  Just to put it in perspective, imagine how hard it would be to get yourself to agree on the same thing after some period of time.  Unless you happen to own a time machine, have been travelling at near light speed, or were frozen (all very unlikely), you are probably a different person to some degree from only a few years ago.  Duplication of thought- imagine what it would take.  Thought processes are the product of electrical and chemical reactions in our brain.  These reactions result from and impress upon the external world in a intricate interplay.  To end up with the same result would require the same external stimuli perceived in the same way, and processed by the same system.  But our minds are products of the past, so that would have to be accounted for to.  See where I'm going?  If not impossible, improbable.  Highly improbable.  The amazing differences between people can be easily summed up in our eyes.  While the iris is such a small area, the extreme uniqueness only serves to underscore our individuality.  (So technically David Bowie counts as two people, although it should be more considering how many phases he's gone through)

So the challenge: surviving and thriving in a world with inevitable conflict.  Realize that you can change your own future by the choices you make, and try not to get bogged down because of others choices.  Ultimately you have to realize that others are going to make their own choices, according to whatever wishes, plans or schemes they have.  The paths that people take will always be different - as different as the people themselves.

Shadowfax

There was no fanfare, no ticker tape parade, no special announcement or interruption in the regularly scheduled programming.  But I felt a need to celebrate when my car's odometer reached 50000 miles.  My car could have theoretically circled the Earth twice, with a little mileage left over - and I know its traveled emotional miles with me as well.  It seems like a car is one of the few places that I can truly feel alone anymore.  You can watch as the world slips by as you travel down pavement that ribbons off into the distance.  The freedom is exhilarating.  On trips I always love the feeling sitting in the back of my mind, like shadows I'm scared to acknowledge for fear of them dying in the light.   "Just skip your exit.  Keep on driving.  Explore.  See where you end up.  See where this road goes."  I imagine myself cutting all ties with everything up to that point, and just starting over.  A simple reset.  That car is much more than a vehicle.  It's been a bed, a dining room, a concert hall, an observatory;  my silver steed.  From getting me from where I am to where I want to be, here's to another 50000 miles.

The Au Standard

Had this been a decade ago, he probably would started out by asking "Paper or plastic?"  But I had brought the canvas bags, so there was no need.  He asked if I would bag my own groceries, and said I could choose what to group together.  Whatever I thought, it would help me to get back to my car, and my apartment sooner. He was an older guy, probably in his late 40s, but he seemed energetic working the check out line. He asked what I was studying.  "Oh, I'm a law school student."  He asked what they had us studying.  "Cases, and lots of cases."  He seemed surprised.  He told me he thought we would spend more time looking at statutes.  I explained we did that in one of the classes, but the majority of the time was spent on cases in most of my classes.

I learned that this man had represented himself in over forty lawsuits, worked for Penn State in some way regarding Physical Education, and was part of a Olympic history non-profit group (that he was currently representing in a suit against the International Olympic Committee).  He got me thinking; here's a guy with an amazing life story scanning my milk and eggs.  The first question one might think of is: "how many other people are there out there like him?"  A think perhaps a better question is "why should it take an exceptional story to recognize someone?"

Stop and think for a second about your own life.  Ever person knows their own story.  Where one has been, what one has done, the struggles that one has to endure, the accomplishments, the heartbreaks, the friendships, the failures, the victories.  Try to realize now that every other person has their own story.  EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.  Not just your friends and family, and the people you associate with, but every single person.  The people we encounter everyday have their own stories.  The postal worker who drops your mail off everyday, the barrista at the coffee shop that knows your order, the bus driver who drives the shuttle you used to stay out of the rain, the guy playing bass in the band at the bar, the girl stocking shelves, the cop sitting at the side of the road with a radar gun.  Furthermore, so do the stars on tv, the politicans, the actors on the silver screen.  Even the ones we will never encounter in our lifetime.  From the screenwriter living in a tiny flat in London, to the ranch hand working in Argentina, to the impoverished kid running through the streets in any number of crowded, overpopulated, polluted cities that circle the globe.  6.8 Billion people.

6.8 billion people.  And how many do we actually see as other people?  We automatically disregard unfamiliar faces, and fail to see them as people, and treat them as they deserve.  The postal worker is an idiot who doesn't know not to fold our mail, the barrista is an airhead who can't make a decent cup of coffee, the bus driver never did anything worthwhile with his life, the bass player smokes two packs a day and couldn't make it as a rock star, the girl stocking shelves is a teen mom, the cop sitting at the side of the road is an ass on a power trip.  We're quick to judge.  It's human nature, we say.  I saw a study that shows that a person can really only really conceptualize of about 150 other people maximum.  That falls far short of the amount of actual people.  It's human nature.

So what?  Is that supposed to be an excuse?  A justification?  A weak cop out is all it really is.  The world could be such a better place if we could realize the simple fact that we're all people.  Too often we forget this simple fact.  And it really is simple.  The "golden rule"; treat others as you would like to be treated.  How many problems could we eliminate if we followed this in even a fraction of our lives.  If we treated people like people.  Perhaps, it's a matter of perception, and we simply need to realize the truth and broaden the scope of our understanding.  We rarely take the time to truly understand anyone.  How many people do we actually know, and how many people actually know us.

Maybe that's the beginning.  If I can understand myself, I can understand others, and others can understand me.  The realization of understanding can perhaps lead to a view of the bigger picture.  Seeing the trees, and the forest.  It could make the world a brighter place.  Hold the door for someone.  Smile at the person passing you on the street.  Let someone merge into your lane in traffic.  Hit an elevator button for someone.  Treat people as people.  See people as people.  Understand that every single person we come across has their own story.  It could turn a simple "once upon a time" into a "happily ever after".

Pheidippides Bound

I am impatient.  I have numerous projects left half finished, and have many dreams collecting dust.  My father once told me that things come too naturally to me, and the contrary principle is when I encounter something that challenges me, I simply quit.  It's part stubbornness, part arrogance, and partly a lack of pacing.  Case in point, in the spring of 2002, I was in eight grade.  It was my first year at the high school, and we had an interesting algebra teacher.  He was (is?) a member of the National Guard, working as a cook.  Late in the school year, we were discussing rate of change, and he used speed as an example.  As he had to stay in good shape, he bet our class that he could out run the whole class in either a mile or two, I can't remember which.  Considering it was a class of twenty 14 year olds against a man who has since retired from teaching, it seemed like an interesting proposal.

I still remember the morning.  That third period we walked up from the back of the school to the track that had been completed a few years prior.  It was a brisk morning in either late April or early May.  We lined up on the starting grid.  He set a stopwatch to the side, and gave us a count down.  Three. I can feel the anticipation racing down my spine.  Two. Here will be my chance to stun everyone. One.  It will be amazing.  Go.  I take off in front of everyone else.  I am in a full on sprint.  I make it less than halfway around the oval before it feels like my lungs are going to explode.  

I can't remember if I even walked a mile, my mind has sorta repressed the aftermath. I do however remember puking between classes, and feeling lightheaded for a while.  I had tried sprinting in a marathon, hoping some innate talent would save me.  My hopes ran thin.

Senior year, 2005.  It's November, and I've recently spent the last two weeks in a frenzy of activity.  Nights filled with play practice, weekends consisting of working on set pieces, time between classes spent learning a dance for senior night at the football game as well as learning a new song.  I decided that the added activity was great, and started going to the after school weight lifting sessions, mostly populated by football players and the track team preparing for the upcoming season.  I told myself, you'll join track.  Get the months of practice in now.  And for that winter, I did.

A few times a week, I'd head across the parking lot to the elementary school, with a change of clothes packed in my book bag.  My lifting partner was a female friend, it made things easy because we lifted roughly the same amount, however it does become slightly awkward.  We would do the lifting routine, and then do a few laps around the school in the halls.  Usually with wrestlers who were bundled up in multiple jackets, trying to sweat off some pounds before weight - in.  When there was no snow outside, we would head up to the track and jog there.  The wind was the worst.  A clearing on top a hill isn't exactly the best place for a track.  In fact, one night that December a friend and I decided we would go running.  It was probably 8, and the lights were on.  I hadn't taken gloves or a hat, but we ran.  When I got home, my grandmother was convinced I was going to catch pneumonia.  The rest of the night I coughed, wheezed, and generally looked like a zombie.

My dad saw an ad for a family membership at a gym in town.  He applied and I turned my attention in the nights towards that.  That spring rolled around, and I was chosen for a part in the musical.  There was a meeting for the track and field team, I skipped it.  The coach stopped me in the hallway and asked me why I hadn't attended.  "Oh, well, with the play and everything, I won't have much time, and so I thought I'd save you the trouble."  He looked slightly confused, but accepted this and walked away.  The time commitment wouldn't have been that big of a deal though, I think it was an excuse to give myself an easy way out.  I continued working out at the gym until summer rolled around and I simply stopped.

It is now the first year of college.  A friend and I have convinced ourselves that we will restart the routine of weightlifting from high school.  We made our way across campus to the sports center.  We went in, and decided it was going to be leg day.  I went to the leg press machine.  That was always my favorite.  When you start lifting weights, and are doing bench press with only the bar, being able to load upwards of 300 lbs on the leg press machine and actually do it,  makes you feel like you can accomplish something.  We loaded it up.  I was going to go first.  I delocked the safety, lowered the weight and . . .  got stuck.  I couldn't muster the energy to get one single rep.  He grabbed the weight, and helped me push it up, I locked it into place.  And we laughed it off.  Well, I guess that's what happens when you don't like for almost an entire year.  We went to the treadmills for a bit and finished the session.  I never went back to that gym.

Summer of 2008.  This is the year I tell myself.  You have an awesome phone that you use to track your progress and do double duty as a music player.  I spend the initial part of the summer building on what I learned a few years ago.  My two best friends and I decide we will jog nightly.  We go one night.  It is a beautiful night.  The stars are putting on a grand display, and from the lofty Portage track we can see all the twinkling lights on the surrounding hills, as if some of the stars decided to take a terrestrial vacation.  We finish the first lap, I can feel it building.  The second lap, I really want to stop.  The third lap: "Guys, I can't make it, Keep going, I'm just going to walk."  I start jogging by myself a bit in the mornings, trying to catch up to what they can do.  As it gets close to school, the high school football team starts their morning practices on the field.  It becomes odd jogging by them, I quit.  

Okay, they're in school now, you'll have the track to yourself.  You got your dream schedule, you don't start until 10 any day, you can wake up early do you routine, and then get ready for class.  I start researching exercise plans and decide to start HIIT.  This seems like it will be an efficient way to get in shape quickly. The first week goes as expected.  The second week, this is becoming tedious.  I don't think I finished the third week.  Around this same time, I start using various dumbbells in the garage.  I make a makeshift bench by using some garden kneelers on a patio bench.  My father takes note of this and decides he also will start lifting, he sees a bowflex-type machine at a local pawn shop, and purchases it, placing it in our grandmothers basement.

While I stopped the HIIT, I start lifting.  For Christmas I get a proper dumbell set, and I manage to stay on plan for almost half a year.  I have a dedicated schedule.  Five nights a week.  At 8 or 9, I walk across the street, descend the  stairs to the basement, and do the day's activities.  During this time, I'm cast in a show where I end up only wearing a hospital gown over a pair of underwear on stage.  Thankfully for all involved I have been working out.  I feel much better about my body than I have in a long time.  Then summer arrives, and the structure falls apart.

January 2010.  I'm cast in Jesus Christ Superstar.  I find out the costuming direction: more motivation.  I begin my plan again.  I've tweaked it with new knowledge.  Things are going good.  I start out at 20 minute jogs, two months later, I've doubled that to 40 minutes.  Summer arrives, I manage to stay on schedule.  I go on vacation, and come back to a new job and more intense play rehearsals.  Priorities change.  Law school is approaching.  I'll put it off until then.

It is 7:00A.M. November 15, 2010.  The alarm goes off.  Snooze.  The alarm goes off. Snooze.  The alarm goes off. Snooze.  It is now 9 in the morning.  Not only do you not have the time to do your morning routine, but you'll have to go into rush mode to get to class on time.  You remember an article you have recently reread.  Humans being are outclassed physically in every regard by other animals besides one: distance running.  The human body doesn't cool itself through panting, but rather through sweating.  The largest muscle in the human body, the gluteus maximus, is primarily only used in running.  Narrow hips, strong knees, big Achilles tendons, all point to the same conclusion.  Our body is designed for distance.

There is a principle in architecture: form follows functions.  So all that's missing is a way to implement that function.  Balance the key needs of meeting goals but not over exertion.  Pacing.  Could I hunt down a antelope on the hot African savannah?  No, but I can go for more than a sixteenth of a mile without the need to vomit.  In the focus on the big picture, I frequently miss the little goals that I've crossed and get frustrated.  I come to a wall and quit, without realizing I've blasted through multiple ones already.  Look back to 2002 and see where you come.  Look forward to 2018 and imagine where you can be.  Don't focus on the goal and lose sight of the journey, because you'll miss the sights, and more importantly the mile markers.  It may not be an innate talent, but it's a latent skill.  When it comes to matters of the mind and body, man is both the sculptor and the clay, and the sculpting process is not easy nor painless.  However it is not without merit.  The journey of a thousand miles, begins with a single step, and while every step seems small the all contribute to the goal.  The key is patience and persistence, as Pheidippides knew well.

- - - - - - - - 

Further reading: (for those interested)

Born To Run  -  The main article 

Marathon Injuries  - refers to the main article, in application to modern Marathon runners

Running and Toe Size - supplemental information about the main article

Humans designed as slow movers - A Rebuttal argument to the "Born to Run" article

Philly

I recently heard something to the extent that "you are an average of the five people you associate with the most". And I know who has been the biggest impact upon my life.  When I was growing up, I had never an idol.  I never had a poster of Michael Jordan on the wall, nor were there posters of rock stars from the most current hot bands.  I never needed these posters, because my support and motivation shared a room with me.  My best friend.  My brother.  And he definitely has left his impact upon me.

Our parents like to say that we have our own language, like twins do, and this statement has some degree of truth to it.  It's English, but our own shortened, mixed up form. Comprised mostly of all the random, and usually stupid, sayings that we have accumulated over the years.  If I were sitting on my bed at home, I could turn over and say to him "Leaving a whole bunch of questions that don't need to be answered," and he would probably smile, knowing what I was referring to.  This speaks to the fact of how much time we've spent together.  In fact, we shared a room until I left home to study law.

I always took for granted the knowledge that I got to spend a sizable portion of my life with my best friend almost 24/7.  Every night was like a sleepover.  We would frequently go to bed at night, and have random, pointless, yet meaningful conversations that were the perfect way to close days.  That's not to say we didn't have ways to irritate each other.  You spend enough time with someone, and you find ways to press their buttons, and heaven only knows how much fun it was to get on each other's nerves.  He probably deserves a medal for putting up with me.  Being the younger brother, he always had to play second fiddle to my choices. When we went trick-or-treating on Halloween, I got to be Batman, and he was Robin.  When we used to play video games as kids, before online multiplayer, or co-op became all the rage, he had to wait until I exhausted my live until it was my turn.  I still remember when I was about eight when I was facing off against the end boss in Donkey Kong country.  Having gotten as far through the game primarily due to luck and many restarts, I had no idea how to vanquish the foe, and ended up having to restart many times.  I remember chastising him for not cheering hard enough.  I'm lucky he has such a cheery disposition and would put up with  up with me.

People often ask me how hard law school is.  They'll ask about the upcoming finals, or the required reading, when honestly the hardest thing has been not seeing my best friend every day.  Three years ago I remember dreading his graduation because I was expecting him to go away to college, and leave me an empty room.  Luckily, we got another two years when he decided to commute, as I did, albeit to a different school.  Now that I've left thought, I feel as though I abandoned him.  It was bound to happen eventually, and it's a start to a brand new chapter of my life, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

While I accept that life changes, that doesn't mean I have to forget about where I came from.  It's why I keep a picture of the two of us as kids in my wallet.  Multiple times throughout the day I'm reminded of him.  The Greek language has four words for love, which I believe is far more useful and descriptive.  Philadelphia, the 'City of Brotherly Love', derives it name from one of these words if you haven't guess yet.  Philia. The word mainly refers to familial love, such as the sort between brothers.  All in all, I consider myself blessed to have such a great best friend, and even better brother.

A Charge to Keep

If you were to check my wallet, you'd find the typical fare.  Some wrinkled ones, a crisp twenty, a guitar pick, some change, various plastic cards, and identification.  You will also find a picture and a small slip of paper.  The picture is not tonight's topic, but rather that rather plain piece of paper.  This is one of the heaviest things I carry. It reminds me of days unlived and in some ways sums up a great mystery of life.  For all the importance I assign to it, it is fairly innocuous.  It is approximately five and a half centimeters wide, by a centimeter and a half tall, with a thickness of approximately .01 centimeters (according to google).  Have you guess where I obtained this slip of paper?  If not, let me provide you with more information.  On the back there are three lines, the bottom line supposedly lists my "Lucky Numbers".  Did that tip you off?  How about the first line that reads: "Learn Chinese - Strawberry" with the appropriate characters under it.  This slip of paper came from a fortune cookie.
It is very heavy.

Sometimes we as people become so involved in the world, we forget who we are; how we came to be; why we are.  This small paper serves as a reminder to what I could be, and is a constant reminder to strive for what I may become.  The text on the front isn't particularly poetic, I could for instance imagine it in the form of a haiku, or a poem, but I feel it none the less as a brand across my spirit.  It has become the fuel for my inner fire, burning with the intensity that lit up Nero's face as played his fiddle among his burning kingdom.  It has become the wind that fills my sails, taking me to exotic locales.  It has become the waves that crash upon the shores of my mind, both calming and frightening.

Hard work without talent is a shame, but talent without hard work is a tragedy.

Can you sum up a person in fourteen words?  No.  Can you capture in essence of their being in as many words? I doubt it.  Can you find a phrase that reveals so much with so little?  I believe so, or at least find a way to develop a greater understanding of that individual; and those words cut to the core of my being.  I admit that things come to easy to me, I usually laugh and make a joke of it, but this undermines the importance of my thought.  I was probably the guy in high school that you cheated off of, but I didn't care, because I wasn't having a hard time, and as long as you didn't drag me into it, I was perfectly fine with it.  Or maybe I was the one that you slipped a few dollars to, and in return I'd let you look at my math project so you could see all the shortcuts in the assignment.  Or maybe you borrowed my notes, copied them and realized that you could skip class and keep asking for my notes.  Before you think anything else, know that I am sorry for what I allowed to happen.  Maybe you squeezed out an "A" on that English exam, maybe you saved a few hours calculating the volume of various shapes, maybe you could sleep in because you didn't have to go to your 9 AM; but at what price?  I cheated you out of the chance to find your potential as much as I haven't explored mine.  I've had very few people call me out on this, but I thank you for when you do.  You remind me to take up the challenges, and view them not as something to merely pull myself over, but to bound over, seeing how far my legs will take me.  Living to my potential instead of potentially living.  Remember that there are no short cuts in life, and the miracle medicine is most likely snake oil.

Why do we fear challenges?  Perhaps it's the effort involved, maybe we're content to hide under the covers when the opportunity for greatness presents itself.  Or maybe it's something deeper.  It may be easy to live within our limits, staying away from the edges, lest we find out the size of the box within which we live.  The fear of failure.  Reaching a boundary that represents the edge of our potential is terrifying.  This confrontation serves to mark off who we are and our dreams, from what we desire and who we can be.  But even these limitations are really just travesties, marking off boundaries in our spirit.  If we took the effort to reach these walls, we'd find we have the strength to scale them.  Where would be if no intrepid individual decided to see what he was truly capable of?  I shudder to imagine the scene.

What is true greatness?  The strength to scale the wall? No, the fortitude to try and find that wall.  We may recall the epics, myths, tall-tales, urban legends, plays, songs, and stories of greatness.  We come to believe that it's a quality possesed by the few.  Heroes that shaped the modern age through their efforts.  Whether leading an ragtag army against inconceivable odds, discovering some scientific principal, or crafting a beautiful work of art, we see these people as fundamentally different from us.  Perhaps they were to some degree lucky, or were shining paradigms of humanity that we could all emulate, but the fact remains that they had to take the first step towards their walls to test their ability to climb, run, and light the torch of human achievement.  We shouldn't be intimidated by their achievements, but rather inspired.  Rather than remain safe in the comfort of obscurity, we should find solace in the fact that their achievements can be replicated.

We all have our limitations, but the worse kind are artificially imposed.  True greatness is the wholeness of being we can experience if we find our true limits and expand our spirit to fill every niche.  If we learn to bridge ourselves, than we can learn to cross the supposed divide that exists between individual people.  I won't pretend that this will be easy, but that's what's exciting about it.  We can construct a future for ourselves that we can be proud of, not because it's perfect, but because we had the strength to take part in it.