Whenever I stop running regularly, getting back is always difficult. I keep postponing the starting line, I keep telling myself that today is not a very good day — it’s cold (or hot), I haven’t had enough sleep, or I don’t have enough time. Which can be true, and yet getting back on track gets harder and harder.

I don’t remember a single run that I wasn’t happy I did. Not a single time when I had to kick myself out of the door, I regretted. So why is starting anew is so damn difficult? Inertia. When you run, you just do. When you don’t run — same thing, you don’t. And it’s not that easy to switch from not running to running. That’s why all the coaches of this world say that once you get to the starting line, you’re halfway there. And that’s also why all the couches of this world attract us, the ready couch potatoes that would rather do something static than running.

In terms of slogans and trademarks, it’s really hard to beat “just do it” — because that’s what it boils down to, I’m sorry it’s too corporate, but that’s just what the company did, they took the common sense, and the only thing that works, and made it theirs. The reality is — you will only know it was a right thing to do AFTER you’ve done it. After the run. After the sun in your eyes (next time I’ll even remember to put on sunscreen), or a refreshing drizzle on your face. You’ll know if — first when you breathe in the fresh air while your feet start kicking the ground underneath you, and then, when you are taking a shower after the run. You’ll know it then — something that’s impossible to know when you have just woken up and would rather stay in the comfort of your home for the next week thank you.

Most of the time, we think about minimalism as something good. And while on the outside I can feel cluttered, on the inside I’m a devoted minimalist — very fond of the idea.

Let me give you two examples — one where I chose (relative) minimalism, and one where I went with complexity.

My old MacBook got ruined by water almost two years ago, and when after a few days it refused to recognize the hard drive, I put it aside and never touched it since. I didn’t buy a replacement, but instead made it work with an iPad and a keyboard. (I have another MacBook for work.) Yesterday, it turned out that the MacBook was working, and now I have it back. And… I’m not sure that I want it back. A more minimal setup is fine for me, and having a choice of writing this text on a MacBook or on an iPad, I choose the latter. Works better with texts for me — as well as for reading or watching.

A different example.

I’m trying out something that half of the planet threw themselves into when the pandemic was young — making sourdough bread from scratch. I haven’t baked a single loaf yet — but I’ve already spent enough time discarding failed dough starters, and reading up on the topic. There are way simpler ways to get bread. From a bakery fresh and perfect, just a couple of minutes time and a setback of a few euros. Then, if we talk about a hobby, I could make bread with yeast. Another level of complexity up — find someone with a ready starter and ask to share. But I want to try the most complex way of them all, all by myself, all the steps.

These are two different examples of striving for simplicity vs deliberately seeking out complexity. I cannot even compare them (yes, apples and oranges, and even — food and robots). But there are specific different pulls in these two scenarios. One is minimizing the tools, and not keeping this maintenance of gadgets as an additional level. The other is a case of exploration and curiosity. What does it take to make a starter from air, water and flour? What would the dough feel like to the touch? Am I able to handle it? Essentially, what does it take to make a loaf of bread?

While not purely functional, this is the complexity that gives life color.