My feet pound along the gravel trail 2½ miles up the canyon. The sun beats down hot, my legs feel heavy and lethargic, lungs ache ever so slightly with each breath, and sweat is running down my bare arms and chest. This slight discomfort serves as today’s crisis.

The key, the point of creating today’s crisis along this trail, is to ignore the discomfort and focus on the positive, which is not difficult. When the trail runs near the river, I’m taken by its power and beauty. The last few days have been warm and the river is high and fierce with snowmelt. I stare at the frothy rapids and don’t worry about tripping on the smooth trail.

The warm breeze feels cool against my damp body. It seems spring has finally settled in and all the leaves have spread out in the last two weeks, leaving the lower canyon a glowing green that can’t help but brighten your day, not to mention providing a good amount of refreshing shade along the trail.

Deep inside, I feel traces and remnants of stress left over from extended periods of spreading myself too thin. This practice of looking beyond negative feelings and focussing on the positive makes any stress shrivel and fade. It keeps any anxieties evaporating from pores and blowing away in the warm breeze.

Here’s how it works: Whatever you focus on grows. Running in the canyon, it’s easy to focus on the positive, the peaceful, the beautiful. It’s easy to sense all that growing inside, nature’s tendrils wrapping around my heart and mind.

At the three-mile point, a shady bench convinces me to stop and stretch. Sitting in the shade, I notice four distinct bird songs splashing through the thick green canopy above, falling around me like the light and shadow dancing on my arms and legs.

Afterward the stretch, I stand and start up the trail again. This time the heaviness is gone from my legs and I can’t help but run along at 13 miles per hour. I won’t keep this up for over half a mile, but for the moment, it feels good.

I like this freedom to choose my own crises. This way I get the ones I like, ones I know I can handle successfully. This way I know I can build myself up without first tearing myself down.

So many people live out their lives with the same habits and ruts until they are faced with the necessity of reevaluation and change. Until cancer or fatal accidents or lay offs or break ups knock the world out from under their feet. Until real crises stretch them to their limits and beyond, when they are not prepared.

Many people, when put to the test, snap. They become overwhelmed and spend months or years or decades recovering from the trauma, seeking to restore a sense of order and control over their lives.

Others find such epic trials liberating. They rise to the occasion and discover themselves capable of far more than they ever dreamed possible. As the crisis subsides, these people lead happier, more productive and balanced lives. They live to bless their heart attacks and bankruptcies, thanking divine providence for valuable lessons and powerful opportunities for growth.

I’m doing everything I know how to avoid the big ones. Life’s tricky enough without incurring real difficulties. I’m trying to build a savings account. I watch my diet a little and exercise a lot. I look both ways before crossing the street. But even though I don’t expect any major crises to come my way anytime soon, I’m unwilling to sit and wait, leaving all growth and preparation to chance.

I find what growth I can by reaching past small difficulties and trials, petty annoyances and discomforts. And I find myself refreshed and happy after each exercise of will, attitude and determination.

I’ve covered seven miles of trail and have nearly reached my parked car. I stop to walk the last hundred yards, to let my muscles cool down, take in the scenery, and enjoy this perfect summer day. The mini-crisis is over except for the hot breeze and sun that bake my scorching skin.

I stop on the last bridge to stretch out again, but a better idea comes to mind. I climb over the bridge’s railing and look down ten feet to where the river slows behind a short dam. Just the thought of what I am about to do is enough to tighten the muscles around my chest and turn each breath shallow.

So I stop thinking and peel my fingers away from the railing. The fall through air is brief and the fridgid water swallows me whole. Invisible currents tug at my limbs as I push off the bottom and claw my way frantically toward the shore.