Date: 2005-01-15
To: View Entry
Miles today: 0.0

12:10pm1.15.05Just picked up Rebecca Solnit¢s Wanderlust, and the first paragraph has already gripped and grabbed me. I found her through the recommendation of Break a Leg, one of those as yet unmet hikers I mentioned yesterday. Before I really delve into this new author, though, I want to explore my own understanding, my own perspective on this issue. Why do people walk? Why do they enjoy it? Or, to bring it slightly less out of the realm of purely theoretical and more into reality and personal experience -- why do I walk? And what makes it so gol-darned fun? I find that when I walk, I go so much further than my feet carry me. My mind soars, becomes unbounded, unfettered, is carried along on the wind. I recall, quite vividly, that hellacious week in which I hammered out my thesis. 20 hours a day, of intense, intensive writing, hunched over my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, curtain drawn, secluded in my dark, literary den, emerging only when the pressure on my bladder necessitated it, and for my daily dash to the dining hall, to stock up for the following day. I allowed myself to sleep only after the completion of each chapter. Thus, my biological clock was sorely abused before the introduction was half-written (as I said before, in school I was always an obsessive-compulsive writer), hence the need to keep my room dark. Well, after 3 days (nights?) of maintaining this schedule, I was still awake, in the purely technical sense of the word. My eyes were open (most of the time), I was responsive to sensory stimuli (the fire alarm sent a jolt of adrenaline to my brain that took days to recover from), and I consumed food frequently enough to prevent my stomach from voicing its objections too loudly. But, sometime around the third or fourth day, I noticed my productivity had declined, to somewhere approaching zero. After staring at the same bloody words for a solid 30 minutes, I cursed writer¢s block, shoved my chair back, stood up, flung my door open (momentarily blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights of the hall), left my dorm, and went for a walk across the arboretum campus. It must have been relatively early in the morning -- the student body was conspicuously absent, and only the grounds crew were in sight. I had abandoned my room out of frustration and fear (my thesis was already a week overdue, w/ my advisor running interference for me w/ the department. What if I didn¢t finish it? No diploma¢¦) Not the kind of thoughts you need swirling in your brain when you¢re already suffering from writer¢s block, sleep deprivation, and bordering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. But, as I walked along the Crum (the creek running through campus, locale of the Crum Regatta, a story for another day), once I stopped fretting about my paper and started noticing my surroundings, I calmed down. My heart slowed its frantic pace, my adrenaline levels resumed normal concentrations. After half an hour, I discovered that, as my feet were meandering aimlessly, my mind had been focusing on my stumbling block and, moreover, had worked its way around it. I also discovered that I was lost. But, it was a small price to pay resolving my writing difficulties. And assuring my timely graduation. Once I worked my way back to campus, I sat at my computer, and began to type. And, throughout the rest of the composition of my thesis, any time I encountered a wall, I simply went for a walk. At 3am, I found that even the halls of the dorm would suffice. Is there a physiological explanation for this? Maybe something about movement increasing blood flow or some such jingo. To me, walking simply provides clarity, provides peace, allows my mind to escape its physical confines and travel unimaginable distances.4pmWent for a walk this afternoon. Not a walk in the woods, but as close as I can emulate from w/in spitting distance of my apartment. The Sligo Creek Trail. Not really a trail. More of a paved pedestrian highway, and the flattest stretch of land you¢ll find east of Ohio. But, there are a few trees, b/t you and the road. And there¢s a bamboo grove, so, you know, plant-life. Even if it is non-native. And, it¢s only half a mile or so from my house, so it¢s a convenient escape. I came down here, and sat on a bench, and closed my eyes. Sat there for 10, 15, 20 minutes like that. Shutting off one source of sensory input, you become consciously aware of details that you otherwise process (and disregard) unconsciously. At first, all I could hear was the sounds of traffic, whizzing by. But then, I began to differentiate -- the throttling hum of an engine accelerating, indicating the light had been red, the whining pitch of a motor in need of a tune-up. The cascading sounds of the small creek were a constant background noise, but under it I heard the birds rustling in the fallen leaves, chirping to one another. From above, the rattling crackle of the few remaining remnants of foliage, staunchly adhering to their vertical aeries. Once, the distant thrum of an airplane passing by. A front door slamming shut. A dog barking, followed by echoes of the neighboring canines. The whirr, whirr, whirr of a bicycle gliding past. And what did I feel? The wind, gentle yet frigid, sweeping by, from right to left. The slats of the bench pressed against my back. My shoe was pinching my right big toe slightly, but I refrained from shifting positions; the ache kept me aligned w/ reality. My ears were getting progressively colder, from the top down, as was the tip of my nose. No doubt all were slightly reddened from the chill. My hands were warmly cocooned in the pockets of my fleece jacket. I smelled the damp, earthy soil, the exhaust fumes from the cars. I tasted the cold, winter air as it burned its way into my lungs. And when I finally opened my eyes, they were startled at the vibrancy and color they took in. Everything seemed sharper, clearer, crisper than it did 15 minutes earlier. Learning to ¢see¢ w/o your eyes lets you see so much more w/ them.