Where to? What from?
Running has become an epidemic. For city dwellers it is now fast becoming impossible to enjoy a weekend walk – and while the internet is awash with articles extolling the benefits of running, there is precious little material that presents either the (very real) physical danger, much less the psychological risks of this kind of exercise. It is deeply ironic that the constant injunction to perform day to day tasks ‘mindfully’ is, at least in urban areas, consistently rendered impossible by noise and stress.
Not long ago I took a Sunday afternoon walk on the Thames towpath, as many people do – or perhaps did, seeing what it has become. The first ominous sign was an ‘event warden’ standing guard, in hi-viz jacket, over hundreds of plastic water bottles. Not long after the leaders of the marathon started to appear. Before long the towpath was heaving with runners – numbered, deadly serious and panting. To my distress, I had forgotten that the towpath is now off limits to walkers at the weekend. Even without these competitive runners, the walk has become overtaken by joggers. Participants wear apparently identical figure-hugging Lycra and only differ in the way they carry their phones: strapped to one bicep and resembling a medical gadget, or proffered in front of the runner as if making a votive offering. At one point, I was assailed with runners from both directions, the shouts of rowing coaches from the river and the din of aircraft overhead. How can we stay sane in the midst of this madness? It appears to have become law that all adults should run regularly.
Running as coping strategy
So what does it mean? As a coping strategy one reads that running produces increased energy and concentration, improves cardiovascular health, combats ageing and reduces the risk of cancer. It is claimed there is a concomitant increase in energy and concentration and that this helps at work (or most probably helps someone else make a profit). Notice that in the runner’s mindset ageing has to be ‘fought’ against, and that ‘risk’ of living needs to be managed. The epidemic nature of running suggests that many people are finding their lives bearable only through the perceived chemical advantages of vigorous exercise.
For the runner, motivational music is often important – perhaps the theme to ‘Rocky’ (between the bouts of cramp and intense nausea) – so there is a strong element of triumphalism. We can see the same thing at work in other outdoor pursuits, most obviously cycling and hiking. A visit to a branch of Blacks, the UK ‘outdoor retailer’ will not yield a single book on foraging, or any collections of Mary Oliver’s poetry, but rather a confusing selection of quasi-military kit racked against printed wall coverings of bleak sheep-destroyed terrain that needs to be ‘conquered’ and ‘overcome’. I cannot speak against this attitude strongly enough. It connects entirely with the modern disease of individualism, an indoctrinated requirement to get to the top of the mountain at all costs (this despite the nonsense exhortation for workers to be ‘team players’, and the vile neologism ‘coopetition’).
What is the heart?
Most significantly, we are told that running defends against depression. Perhaps, by not running, we might discover the possibility of engaging with what is being defended against. The late psychologist James Hillman, delivering an Eranos lecture in 1979, described our view of the heart in three ways:
- Courage to live, humanity. The heart of the lion: Coeur de Lion.
- An organ of the body, secret holder of one’s death, a muscle or pump. The heart of Harvey.
- Love, feelings, sense of soul and person. The heart of Augustine.
What did he mean by these ‘disguises’ and what are they disguising?
Hillman quotes the American poet Wallace Stephens line ‘The lion roars at the enraging desert’ (‘It must be abstract’) and says:
“What is passive, immobile, asleep in the heart creates a desert which can only be cured by its own parenting principle that shows its awakening care by roaring.”
With typical fire, Hillman goes on to say:
“The heart of Harvey, already dead, “fitness” replacing vitality, creates the desolation it jogs through, mufflers over the ears, blinded in the sweat of extending its life-expectancy, zombies creating the desert by running and running with nowhere to go. If beauty arrests motion, motion eradicates beauty.”
The reference to zombies is prescient (and the subject of another post), but in case we miss the meaning:
“We fear that rage. We dare not roar. With Auschwitz behind us and the bomb over the horizon, we let the little lions sleep in front of the television, the heart, stuffed full of its own coagulated sulphur, now become a beast in a lair, readying its attack, the infarct.”
“To keep my ticker running, I jog it. The heart must be lean, trim, erect, so I watch for extremes of intensity, like idle leisure, and abuse, like passionate excitement. Now the heart is no longer the animal of love and heat, the place of himma, throbbing out it’s imaginative forms. Now its signals are decoded into little messages about life expectancy. For my heart can insult me, attack me. I must propitiate it: I take this for my heart, do that for my heart, watch out for my heart, I turn it in regularly for a checkup.”
Where is our roar?
The Harvey referenced in the second definition of heart is William Harvey, the physician to James 1 and Charles 1, who in 1616 was the first observer to scientifically describe the workings of the heart as a pump. The consequence of his work was far reaching. It led to a mechanisation of the heart that has gone further than even Hillman saw just over thirty years ago. Who roars now? Perhaps only the likes of Russell Brand (now stifled it seems) and the anarcho-capitalist Max Keiser. The rest of us sleep, allowing Brand and Keiser to do our roaring for us. Then, ashamed of the sound, rush quickly to criticise and belittle, just as we might enviously wish for the collapse of the Shard while at the same time admiring its priapic height, its mastery over us. What then is the heart that is the animal of love and heat, the place of himma? Hillman references the philosopher and scholar of Islam, Henry Corbin, who writes that the himma is the ‘vital force, soul, heart, intention, thought [and] desire’. Hillman clarifies:
“Our hearts cannot comprehend that they are imaginatively thinking hearts, because we have so long been told that the mind thinks and the heart feels and that imagination leads us astray from both.”
The imagining heart
In many respects this concept of the imagining heart represents the essence of what I wish to communicate in this site. Hillman’s essay is a stepping off point (and in itself deserves another post) for imaginal thinking, a recovery of soul, and a celebration of the many ways in which this can be achieved. So, to return to the theme: runners, please stop! Allow the depression, experience what you are defending yourself against, and then act accordingly. When you run, do so for the feel of the wind in your hair, for the feel of tall grasses brushing against your skin, for a rush of youthful delight in your body and its power but not, please, to imprison and silence the roar of your heart.