Last month, I sat in the foyer of a London hotel, with Guinness. I was with one friend I’ve known for 20 years. And another I’d known for 20 minutes.
I listened hard (eyes wide, eyebrows down) as my old friend spoke of his struggle to master swimming. And I listened hard (eyes wide, eyebrows down) as my new friend spoke of his struggle to master canoeing.
I listened hard because I’ve been trying to master kickboxing for three whole years now. Four times a week. Every week. And I’m struggling. I am so very often frustrated. Angry. Lost. Teary, even. Even though I have trained so very frequently, for so very long.
I shared these feelings with Martin and Olly. And I reminded them of my commitment. Four times a week. Every week. For three years.
Martin, I discovered, is 64. He is considered an elite, master swimmer these days. Martin has swum five times weekly, for fifty years. I learned of his struggles and frustrations back then – and now.
Olly, I discovered, is 32. He canoes for Great Britain. Olly has canoed at least three times a week, for twenty-four years. I learned of his struggles and frustrations back then – and now.
But of course, my bigger discovery was that mastery isn’t a destination at all. A neat, contrived – and relaxing notion I know. But also true.
So I sat back. Smiled. And had another Guinness.