VITALITY
What you neglect now will take all your attention later.
The key to bodily vitality—and a not inconsiderable degree of mental and emotional vitality—is learning to befriend discomfort. This is at the heart of resistance training. The more we place ourselves in situations of physical resistance, including walking, running, biking, lifting, digging, climbing, and so on, the stronger and more resilient we are, barring physical injury or over-taxation.
A spiritual teacher once told me that after people attain some degree of physical or financial comfort, it is not uncommon that “it” takes over—“it” being the thing in you that continually seeks ease, comfort, and stimulation of pleasure from sources outside yourself. This state develops into psychical and physical bondage in which the individual functions within ever-narrower boundaries. You see this in the lives of people who leave their cars running idle for ten minutes outside their homes in the winter in order to heat the interior, as though any discomfort, even momentary, must be eliminated. Or the chronic use of analgesics for any minor ache. Or chronic snacking to alleviate any pang of hunger. We get into a state where anything mildly discomforting—wetness, cold, craving, perspiration—must be instantly allayed. This creates physical and psychical weakness, which is measurable in obesity, hypertension, heart disease, muscle atrophy, diabetes, insomnia, and mild depression, among other maladies.
Michael Murphy, cofounder of the Esalen Institute, told me that a psychiatrist he knows prescribes a program of walking, jogging, or physical activity for thirty days for patients who come to him complaining of mild depression or anxiety. Very often that resolves the situation.
People sometimes joke about the elderly being cranky or finicky. It’s actually a tragic situation because the limitation of bodily flexibility and sensory or cognitive decline can produce irritability and anxiety. I have observed that this descent into negativity is at least as strong, and possibly hastened, in luxury retirement communities where virtually everything is at arm’s reach; where every question of climate, hunger, and mobility is mitigated by convenience. Sometimes a high degree of care is necessary if movement or cognition is impaired. But in other cases I think it leads to a lack of purpose and hence greater symptoms, emotionally and physically, of ennui and depression.
In the 1990s a pair of avant-garde artists in Tokyo, Madeline Gins and her husband Shusaku Arakawa, designed remarkable indoor spaces intended to reverse age-related decline. The couple crafted lofts and work spaces that mimic the slope and discontinuity of nature, so that the act of walking across a room, stepping over a threshold, climbing into a bed or hammock, or settling into a sitting space or swing is more challenging than what we are accustomed to, not in inconvenient ways but in innovative ways where colors, design, and vibrancy make you feel as though you’re dwelling in a grownup tree house. Their living spaces require greater effort from the inhabitant in terms of dexterity, balance, and negotiation, like placing items on a table hanging by cables. The experience is one of playful effort and vitality. People flock to rent or occupy the couple’s designed spaces. “They ought to build hospitals like this,” Gins said.
If you want to learn about the physical and mood benefits of weightlifting you can choose from myriad sources. Personally, I follow the posts and books of fitness expert P.D. Mangan, who can teach you more about these topics than I ever could. But I also want to discuss the benefits of resistance training to your psyche, which, as noted, is an amalgam of emotion and thought.
The physical benefits of weightlifting are generally considered strength and appearance. That is obviously true—but that is not all. Weightlifting and resistance training give you a measurable marker for appreciating your ability to remake yourself, at least within certain parameters. Resistance training, martial arts, and other athletics reflect your psyche and physicality back to you as something of which you are the co-creator.
When I was twelve, I had a slightly older neighborhood friend who was a dedicated weightlifter. He was a decent, bespectacled kid, built like granite but without any kind of bullying swagger. People admired him, even envied him, because at a young age he had powerfully developed his body.
I asked him about his regimen. “It’s 90% mental,” he said. It was a comment wise beyond his years. But I was not mature enough to believe him. There had to be something else, I thought; how could you stick with such an arduous training program? It took years for me to realize the simple truth of what he had said. Hunger for result is the single greatest determinant of achievement. My friend had, in a sense, given me life’s “open sesame.”
Some people may object that I am not sufficiently challenging societal norms or social conditioning when I write about topics like weight training or appearance. And, no, I am not. What I’m challenging is the absence of the wish for change, whether in ways that are considered conventional or unusual. I am challenging the average-minded mentality that casts an indifferent eye on remaking yourself. The truly unexamined aspect of life, and the real tragedy of social conditioning, is cynicism and underestimation of the measurable effects of an authentic wish for change. If you want justification for these efforts, look to result, specifically in conduct and lived experience, which are the only means of evaluating a program of personal development. Ineffectuality finds endless excuses, whether situational, therapeutic, or social. That alone is what I challenge.
Indeed, strength training makes you better able to face life. I’ve taken great inspiration from a widely reprinted article by punk artist and former Black Flag frontman Henry Rollins who discovered the life-changing benefits of weightlifting when growing up fatherless outside Washington, D.C. in the 1970s. I was so moved by what Rollins wrote (originally in Details magazine) that I got a tattoo on the top of my right hand (below) of the iconic four-barred insignia designed for Black Flag by artist Raymond Pettibon. These words belong to Rollins:
When I was young I had no sense of myself. All I was, was a product of all the fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my parents. The humiliation of teachers calling me “garbage can” and telling me I’d be mowing lawns for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. I was threatened and beaten up for the color of my skin and my size. I was skinny and clumsy, and when others would tease me I didn’t run home crying, wondering why.
I knew all too well. I was there to be antagonized. In sports I was laughed at. A spaz. I was pretty good at boxing but only because the rage that filled my every waking moment made me wild and unpredictable. I fought with some strange fury. The other boys thought I was crazy.
I hated myself all the time.
As stupid as it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, carry myself with the ease of knowing that I wasn’t going to get pounded in the hallway between classes. Years passed and I learned to keep it all inside. I only talked to a few boys in my grade. Other losers …
A powerfully built teacher named Mr. Pepperman took sympathy on Henry and started him on a program of weightlifting.
Weeks passed, and every once in a while Mr. P. would give me a shot and drop me in the hallway, sending my books flying. The other students didn’t know what to think. More weeks passed, and I was steadily adding new weights to the bar. I could sense the power inside my body growing. I could feel it.
Right before Christmas break I was walking to class, and from out of nowhere Mr. Pepperman appeared and gave me a shot in the chest. I laughed and kept going … I got home and ran to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. I saw a body, not just the shell that housed my stomach and my heart. My biceps bulged. My chest had definition. I felt strong. It was the first time I can remember having a sense of myself. I had done something and no one could ever take it away.
As an adult, Rollins captured what he experienced in aphorisms that are worthy of William Ernest Henley, author of Invictus (“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul”):
• Pain is not my enemy; it is my call to greatness.
• I have never met a truly strong person who didn’t have self-respect.
• I believe that when the body is strong, the mind thinks strong thoughts.
• The Iron is the best antidepressant I have ever found. There is no better way to fight weakness than with strength.
• Once the mind and body have been awakened to their true potential, it’s impossible to turn back.
The subheading of this chapter is, “What you neglect now will take all your attention later.” I want to explain what I mean. Even though I insist upon possessing a Definite Chief Aim, many things in life, including health, money, and relationships, place a legitimate claim on us. A friend once told me, “If you don’t give something its proper attention now, it will take all of your attention later.” Like a relationship fractured by neglect. Or a health crisis.
Even when in the midst of a demanding project, it is crucial to stay physically vital. In such cases, you can remain vital by not drinking booze or drinking moderately; walking or biking to work, if possible; reducing your caloric intake, which does wonders for focus and alertness; and engaging in regular workouts or mini-workouts, if you are pressed for time. Even twenty pushups when you wake up can set your day on a better track. But if you go the route of eating donuts and habitually drinking or smoking pot to wind down, you will falter. Guaranteed. I enjoy alcohol and weed—in their place.
From August to December of 2009 I was doing publicity for my first book Occult America. I had media gigs almost daily. I considered it a great privilege. During that time I drank no booze so I could remain on top of my game. I am not abstinent, but at various times in my life—such as periods of intense deadlines or when I need to amp up my earnings—I avoid intoxicants.
I was strengthened in my resolve from an unusual source, for me anyway: conservative commentator and author Tucker Carlson. When I was in my twenties, I was friendly with Tucker. I held, and continue to hold, a radically different worldview from him. But I liked and admired him. He was friendly, determined, and knew exactly what he wanted out of life.
I met Tucker in the mid-1990s when I was an editor at The Free Press. The publisher was, in some respects, the driving engine behind the emerging intellectual right wing. It was an exciting and even hopeful time. The right-wing voices of conspiracism, climate denial, and nativism had not yet taken hold, and figures like James Q. Wilson, Glenn Loury, Dinesh D’Souza (believe me, he was a lot better then), and Tucker were climbing the cultural ladder. He and I brainstormed a book, which didn’t work out, but we remained friendly.
I have long since lost contact with him. But I was deeply touched by something that Tucker told an interviewer recent to this writing—and I think it rescued me at a crucial moment in my life. His counsel was simple but powerful. I often tell people to watch for simple things. Familiar expressions translate into power through application—and only through application.
One Sunday in late 2018, Tucker was discussing his book Ship of Fools with conservative analyst Ben Shapiro on the latter’s online talk show. I watched it with my older son. At one point in their exchange, Tucker remarked in an entirely offhanded manner:
Choices do matter, for sure. I quit drinking so I could be more successful—and it worked.
For some reason, his aside really struck me. Especially given his notable rise to the top of the cable and bestseller spectrum. When I heard Tucker’s comment, I had recently divorced. And from the glittery-grimy streets of my Lower East Side environs, I engaged in an increased consumption of pot, booze, and cigarettes, fueling a bit of a 1970s–style Lou Reed existence. Something had to change. Or I would. And for the worse.
As mentioned earlier, someone I love told me she thought I should stop smoking. I stopped. Cold turkey. Because I knew she was right and that persisting in this habit would compromise my health and happiness. But I was unwilling to make the leap that Tucker prescribed. I have never had what I considered a drinking problem. I enjoyed winding down with a drink (or a few), and also drinking socially. In early 2019 I had started smoking pot as a near-nightly routine. Years earlier, I had stopped drinking for 30 days as part of a religious commitment, and again while I was working on my first book. But otherwise, I had never really been clean.
In time, Tucker’s observation started resonating with me more and more. I knew that I, in my own way, wanted the same thing that he wanted: success. I also needed to earn more. I wanted to perform at my peak. I wanted to live out my Definite Chief Aim. I knew that I possessed certain tools. One that I could grasp instantly was what he had prescribed: no drinking. From past experience, I already knew that sobriety would improve my energy, productivity, sleep, as well as my proclivity to meditate and exercise. So, I accepted Tucker’s indirect challenge.
I threw the stuff away—literally. I told my somewhat New Age-y shrink about my intention and he counseled that I dispense with my intoxicants as part of a ceremony. I should meditate, chant, or do something to ceremonially mark my bridge into a new, clean existence. I don’t actually keep any booze at home, so that was out. I thought about simply flushing my bags of weed down the toilet but that seemed anticlimactic. So, I instead took two bags of good weed, a pipe, and an old ashtray that I found on the fire escape when I moved into the place (and that I had since gotten too used to), put them in the last of the plastic deli bags, said prayers to the Commander, and threw it all from my fifth-floor bedroom window into the courtyard/garbage area below. The ashtray hit the pavement with a booming shatter. I had been very careful no one was there. I also went down later and cleaned it all up. I do not litter.
My productivity skyrocketed. My immediate nights ahead were given to work, rest, and friends. My budget was better (booze is costly). Money flowed in. I slept better and arose earlier. Bottom line: Tucker was right.
Next time you hear something that sounds so simple it could fit on a refrigerator magnet, take a pause. Listen again. Sometimes things may seem obvious or like truisms because they are true—so much so that we are alienated from their depth and hence never try them. Attempting a piece of basic, actionable advice can be the greatest thing that ever happens to you. If you find that you cannot do it, you still learn something valuable about yourself. And if you find that you can—you may save your own life.
I am possessed by a certain blessing and curse when it comes to habits. Someone close to me once said, with a mixture of admiration and ruefulness: “Mitch is Walter White,” referring to the chemistry teacher-turned-drug kingpin from Breaking Bad. She meant that when I get into something, I go all the way. This can be seen as either good or bad. But I do tend to embrace things wholly or not at all. This is helpful (or risky) when starting habits or stopping them.