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The Handle That Carries

September 11, 2023


Greetings from the pupil,


In recent days I have stumbled slightly over the circumstances put before me. I’m not proud of every response I offered, but ultimately, with just enough time, I found my feet. In fact, it was one of life’s great pleasures hidden inside a very challenging moment.

What comes to me is a quote I have held onto for a few years now. It is from the stoic Epictetus, a man who wondered about many of the same things we do, but two thousand years ago, a little before Instagram made it possible for him to be an influencer.


“Every event has two handles,” Epictetus said, “one by which it can be carried, and one by which it can’t. If your brother does you wrong, don’t grab it by his wronging, because this is the handle incapable of lifting it. Instead, use the other—that he is your brother, that you were raised together, and then you will have hold of the handle that carries.”


I’ve read just enough about Epictetus to see that his philosophy about living is simplistic, and perhaps in our modern context, naïve. Or not. I don’t agree with everything I’ve read about his attitude toward living, but the idea of the two handles has stayed with me.


Every event has two handles, one by which it can be carried and one by which it can’t. It is not just about dealing with an inconsiderate brother, of course, it is about all of the world that comes to us, every moment of joy and ache. We get to say to ourselves how we will choose to own the circumstance, whether we struggle or whether we carry it happily.


At the heart of this is the examination of what has been given to us in an experience, which requires a little patience and the willingness to set aside our ego, or most of it. Hmm, not my superpowers.


Which leads me to share this example from yesterday. I was running a marathon, a flat course, in perfect conditions, and I felt like I’d been given a gift. For over twenty miles I clicked on a stellar pace, one that would qualify me for the Boston Marathon with more than fifteen minutes to spare. I know that anything can happen, but this margin was very encouraging.


Just behind me was another runner. I didn’t see his face, just caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, or saw his shadow. He matched my steps for almost the entire race. It actually inspired me a little to keep running steady, to pull him along. It was a delight, and we held pace into the twenties.


I won’t burden you with the details of the next few miles because it was just one crippling leg cramp after another, some so startling I yelled out loud, scaring spectators around me. I worked through them, kept running, slower, but still on target to make my time.


This isn’t the first time this has ever happened, and in the past when my race dissolved underneath me, I had miles to accept the outcome. On this day, I never stopped believing I was going to make my time, I still could do it, right up to the last few steps of the twenty-six point two battle. Even when I froze up, in sight of the finish, I still knew I could make it.


By then I was hobbling, screaming at my legs to obey me, probably worrying the other runners around me, tears now streaming down my face as I fought to conquer the time and distance, both of which were indifferent to my passion.


Missed it by five seconds.


I was stunned, heartbroken, sobbing, still trembling in cramps, a train wreck. It didn’t take long for me to let go of Boston, but the effort, the nearly insane desire, was harder to dismiss. In the next minutes, I slowly reached for the handle by which it could be carried.


Limping the death march back to my hotel, I assembled what I was grateful for, which honestly brought more tears. Isaac, the young man who paced right behind me for nearly the entire race, and sought me out after to thank me for leading him through his first marathon. The woman who crossed through busy traffic at the twenty-six-mile mark to help me when I was paralyzed with cramps. She finally told me to stop trying to get my legs to cooperate and just ‘peg-leg’ it to the finish. It got me there.


And many more. But the handle I am most grateful for, even as I sit here aching, still a little amazed at the five seconds, is that I was able to have the experience, all of it. I am fortunate to have a life with very few disappointments that matter, and if one comes to me in what is truly an extraordinary moment, that is something to be thankful for. Even this morning, when I can feel aches in muscles I’d forgotten, it’s good to be reminded not to take them for granted.


None of this is to portray me as someone wise, or mature, or even well-adjusted. I wasn’t intending to write any of it this morning, except I know that one day it will serve as a reminder to me, and maybe some other person, to choose the handle that carries. Choose the handle that serves us, that allows us to take whatever experience that we are given and make it a part of our best selves.



Hope this finds you carrying it,



David



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