The Urge to Flee

      The urge to give up is strong when I first plant my palms on the floor. As I start pushing, though, I gain momentum. The middle, in a way, the plateau--that's the easiest part. I find a rhythm and for maybe sixty seconds, the movement is easy.
     Then my arms and chest start to tear. I want to run from it; instead, I push harder. I push through the pain one, three, five, seven more times, then--splat--my arms give out and I'm left gasping like a carp, facedown in the imprints my hands made in the carpet, red-faced and growling and happy.
      Comfort isn't happiness. I know that much.
      Working muscles builds strength, but only if you push until your body begs and, finally, bails out. And each time you ride it out just a little longer than you expected to.
      I meet resistance too when I discover problems in my guitar playing. I hear a fast melodic passage like birdsong in my head, but one of my fingers--usually the pinky--mumbles and slurs and some of the sounds never hit air. The songbird’s voice cracks. And there's always a half-conscious, millisecond-long battle in which I decide whether to try it again or play something safer, something easier, something I can already play perfectly.
      But of course, you'll never grow by playing that same old music day after day.        It’s hard work to keep pushing, to keep reaching. But as you climb into bed after nightfall, satisfaction always wells up to fill that space you carved out for it during the day.