How about just a chat – instead of polished piece?
No endless editing.
Just my thoughts for what they are, in the moment, today, right now.
I have talked a bit in the past about how I walk every night, at least four miles, and how I like to concentrate on my breathing.
I left out some things.
My walk is more like a power walk than a dawdle or a mosey. It’s the kind of walk Donald Trump would take if he walked. (I imagine he’s carried most places, now that he’s too powerful to walk anymore.) It’s late winter now, and it gets dark early, around six; so I am often left to power walk in the dark. I don’t normally run into anyone at that time of night. My neighbors sometimes pass me, when they occasion to walk their dogs. We startle one another, like one is started upon discovering a raccoon in the bin eating leftover lettuce. Of course I can’t hear a thing except the music on my iPod, so I imagine my neighbor says, “Hello!” much like one would presume, so I say, “Hello!” probably a bit louder than expected, and the dog starts to bark and struggle against its leash.
In the spring and summer, however, it’s light out when I walk and I can clearly see my neighbors taking their evening constitutional, as if their diddling about could possibly burn off that chocolate cake they had for dessert. They do feel better, I’m sure, and that’s all that matters. I look at them smugly, as I propel myself down the road, fists chugging like a great iron steam engine, listening to my iPod. My neighbors look at me rather sympathetically, knowingly, as if they’d met me before.
When I walk, I imagine myself a thoroughbred heading for the finish line, rounding the one-mile-circle of asphalt that surrounds my neighborhood. Everyone is cheering and there is a great wreath of flowers waiting to be set around my neck, like a Hawaiian lai. I sometimes pretend that the song on my iPod is the backdrop to a show at New York Fashion Week and I am Sebastian Sauve on a runway. The paparazzi are going NUTS! and I’m pretending not to notice. When I am not a well-paid fashion model or a frothing stallion, I am a rock star, a finalist on American Idol, a diva or the lead in Fiddler On the Roof, performing in front of a live audience.
And I sing quite out loud.
If I skip a day of walking, because I have sufficiently convinced myself to take a deserved break, I punish myself the next day by walking five miles instead of four. (Sometimes, in fact, I walk an extra mile just because I like the song that’s playing on my iPod, as I head for the home stretch and I feel it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t become Whitney Houston for a moment and belt it out into the forgiving darkness.)
In the late winter, when it gets dark very early, I am almost always alone with my imagination. The real challenge is in the spring and summer, when my imagination is on display and the darkness doesn’t cover me.
My imagination improves with each passing season.
Love your life.
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