If you're here at 6am, you may get a glimpse into what happens at Catalyst in the 'off-hours.' The floor may still be wet; the WOD may not yet be written on the chalkboard. "How do you make yourself get up at 4am to mop?" is a question I get all the time.
In these margins – the predawn, prenoise, predistraction – that's where the art really happens. And it's borne of work. Wander into the dark pocket that is Industrial Court 'B' at 5:30am, and you'll hear Springsteen, Strait, and the Stones. Blue-collar stuff. At these hours, my title shifts, very slightly, from President to Janitor (there's more overlap than you may think.)
The NY Times posted an essay on November 16 called, "When The Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays." They're talking about the joy that comes when the brain flashes the neon "No Vacancy" sign. The notion is especially true when you're attention-hyperactive.
I'm no stranger to a hayfield. For over a decade, I'd spend summers burning my neck under the dry sun, and my palms on baler twine. My grandfather, on the tractor, never wore gloves; and so his protege, way back on the sled, went without also. For long hours we'd circle, with the noise of the tractor and the smell of the diesel filling the space. It was hard, and sweaty, and hot. But the repetitive work made for a free mind. To this day, most stress in my life is resolved with my hands on a shovel, or a deadlift bar. Frankly, I'd rather wear a new callus on my fingers than on my marriage (and I'm sure that, if putting up with a stressful partner is a skill, Robin's achieved her 10,000 hours of practice loooooong ago.)
In 'Thinking Body, Dancing Mind," Chungliang Al Huang muses on the happiness found through work. As it turns out, labour is the liberator, not the jailer, of the masses. Hard work isn't the enemy; it's boredom. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the work boot gives you a shell unmatched by Kevlar. Yes, it's hard to wave a flag while you're shuttling a mop around the floor at 5am, but the idea – the art, the music, the spark that lights the gunpowder – that's where it comes from.
CrossFit helps. Look at the outpouring of creativity we get from our Catalyst Family: photos. Sketches. Essays. Songs, in one case. You think anyone's writing poetry about Vibro-Gym? If so, it starts with, "Dear Penthouse…," and the workout is really just a footnote.
Work is freedom. Go get sweaty.