The Two-Track Life

A dear friend once observed that life perpetually runs on two tracks—a profound truth that has echoed through my thoughts for years. At any given moment, existence barrels along the high track, gathering momentum through adventures, meaningful connections, invigorating workouts, and robust health. Yet simultaneously it careens down the lower track, accumulating moments of loss, waves of overwhelm, and the inevitable physical challenges that accompany the mortal journey. This duality proves both exhausting and impossible to ignore.

Ezra Klein recently explored this very concept in a podcast interview with writer Kathryn Schulz, discussing her compelling memoir Lost and Found—a title that conjures childhood memories of classroom tables laden with forgotten mittens and lunch boxes while simultaneously offering a deeper metaphor for fate's capricious nature. Schulz articulates what many of us struggle to express, captured in a passage that resonates with particular clarity in these turbulent times:

"But even in the most peaceable of times, the extent to which we are confronting the world beyond our own immediate reality is a choice. There's always boundless suffering. There's always boundless beauty. It really is a matter of: Where do we look? And it's tough. You both have to do both at once—and can't do both at once. The question of what kind of balance you strike is infinitely interesting to me." 

Last night, I slipped away from book club early, seeking rest before 6am swim practice. Yet peace proved elusive as my mind churned with the political realities we'd dissected—shared frustrations, simmering anger, tentative hopes for moving forward. I attempted my familiar countdown from 100, desperate to abandon the evening's conversation and its underlying anxieties. Somewhere beyond 800, a restless sleep finally claimed me.

After this morning's workout and my requisite second cup of coffee, William called from Chiang Mai, his voice thick with culture shock. Fresh from a week in Japan's ordered precision, he now found himself navigating Thailand's vibrant chaos—an extreme example of balancing adventure's endless "ands" with finite reserves of energy. He and his travel companions wrestle with sleep deprivation, constant newness, foreign languages, and demanding physical activity. While their experience represents an amplified version, we all perform similar juggling acts within today's relentless pace.

Where do we look? The question haunts me as I consider Schulz's words. How do we honor suffering—both our own and others'—while simultaneously embracing joy in our fleeting existence? That narrow four-inch balance beam where Olympic gymnasts tumble offers another apt metaphor for this perpetual challenge. Yet in this moment, given our country's precarious state, that slender wooden beam seems more forgiving than the demands of our daily realities.

Perhaps the answer lies not in achieving perfect balance, but in accepting the wobble—recognizing that we cannot simultaneously hold all of life's contradictions without occasionally stumbling. The grace exists not in the steadiness, but in the getting back up, in choosing where to direct our gaze despite the dizzying motion of those dual tracks beneath our feet.