It’s been great fun watching the Olympics lately. Two of our children are too young to remember a former Olympics. I love introducing them, not only to the world’s display of athletes, but also to sports they’d never seen (handball, hammer throw!?). The children, I’m pretty sure, would tell you that their favorite part of the Olympics is the spectacle of mama jumping up and down, yelling “Go! Go! Go!”, and singing the Star-Spangled Banner every time it plays.
Still, although I am awed by the athletes, and truly love to watch their feats, I am not necessarily inspired by them. Sure, I hope my kids are inspired to be an Olympian someday (they’ve been given instructions to watch for a sport to choose), but as for me being inspired to be an athlete….oh, no, I’m too realistic for that.
I have the pessimism realism that says it’s just not gonna happen. So, Michael Phelps and Nastia, while great fun to watch, aren’t motivating me to concentrate on a sport for the next four years.
What I find more inspiring are the “regular folk,” people like me, the ones who struggle with procrastination and laziness and lack of motivation and those other excuses reasons that keep one from being an Olympic athlete.
So I was oddly encouraged recently when I read that the great writer E.B. White was a “gifted procrastinator. By writing long letters and puttering about his farm, he often managed to avoid the trauma of writing altogether.”
Puttering…avoiding…yet still managing to write the ageless classic, Charlotte’s Web.
Now, that’s what I call inspiring.