I flipped the yard light on and the living room lights off before closing the door. I’d had a disappointing evening and I needed to walk. I had figured out that it was good for my head to slip on the tennis shoes and to just start moving. It created space for me to think and to pray. Just put one foot in front of the other, take in the sights, the sounds and the smells, and let my mind do what it needed to.
I was late, therefore I was anxious. I could go off on all the reasons why one shouldn’t be late, but my emotional response to my own tardiness is probably a bit excessive. I was late, and freaking out, and therefore kind of speeding. Just a little. I try to avoid egregious law-breaking, but I was trying to avoid being later.
I’d promised a meal to some friends going through a hard time and had lost track of the day. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but they live 45 minutes away. So I’d ordered pizza to be picked up along the way, jumped in the giant Ford Expedition, and I sped west.
I recently read The Road by Cormack McCarthy. We love our post-apocalyptic books and movies, don’t we? We somehow have come to believe that regular work, including filing TPS reports all the time is boring and that fighting for our lives is a lot more fun. This is the romanticizing power of pop culture, that we think we’d shed regular meals, electricity and hot water for some adventure.