Walking

Six days a week, I walk two miles at a pace ranging from downright challenging (sub 15 minutes per mile) to faster than most cover the same turf but no real strain (sub 20 minutes per mile). I used to jog, but a foot injury and my stupid unwillingness to go to a doctor has kept me out of that for a year and a half. Allyn and Jennie walk with me most days, though Jennie will bag on the days when the heat index is into the nineties or above. Sometimes, Sarah or Scott will join us as well. On days when the heat is tolerable, we take Holden and Shibori. The dogs respond well to walking with us, because on the walk the world is functioning as they think it should: they're moving, they're in the outdoors, and they're with a bunch of members of their pack.

I get that.

The way my life works, for years I was basically never outside. House to car to company office to car to lunch to car to company office to home--my contact with the external world lasted the minimum amount of time that was reasonably possible. I was comfortable enough that way, and it simply was the way things were.

Now, though, almost every day I spend a half hour or more outside simply walking my little corner of the world, the half-mile stretch of my neighborhood's road. I still can't name plants--brain software defect, I kid you not--but I am always aware the world is there. I've come to find it quite grounding.

You still won't encounter me on a camping trip--my idea of roughing it is a three-star hotel with room service that closes early and slow Internet connections--but I'm glad to be touching the physical world for this little time each day.