This week the Olympics have consumed our national psyche. Stories emerge about the incredible sacrifices made to get to this point. We see hard bodies that define muscles so precisely so that it wouldn't look much different if we peeled away skin. And these amazing hard bodies do amazing things. And we celebrate the winners. Very quickly those who don't place, lose their place in the story.
I was raised with two beliefs. One was that we in our family were special, that we didn't occupy ourselves with the pursuits of the common folks. Our existence was on a higher plane. The other tenant was that strong, well-muscled men were a cut above the rest. So when I see male athletes standing on the podium receiving accolades for their accomplishment, I have a tendency to feel despondent. I can feel I don’t measure up and I should. I know it isn’t rational. I know the fallacies that lurks behind that thinking. But like a riptide, it has the tendency to set me adrift for a while.
One of the things that helps me find the sand under my feet is this. The Olympics are well-defined arenas to showcase one or several athletic skills that the athletes have been honing for years. Cast in that setting, it looks pretty impressive. In fact, they are really impressive and I do not want to diminish their achievements. But we don’t know how they function after they leave the arena, what goes through their minds when no one is aware. I don’t know that they are better people because of what they have achieved on the world stage. They are simply people who have exhibited a single dimensional skill divorced from a multidimensional life.
And while their awards are well deserved, that is not a basis for the measurement of the worth of a life.
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