I had the whole afternnon yesterday to study so I decided to go mountain biking instead. It had been forever since I had gone and the day was beautiful.
I was riding the trail when I came upon a tree that was in the way. I dismounted and pulled the tree out of the way. Since I knew there were other riders on the trail I wondered why other people hadn’t cleared the tree off the trail. After feeling all happy with myself for doing my daily “good turn” I cam across a huge oak that was in the way. Before the day was over I came across several trees-large and small. While I was all warm and fuzzy from clearing what I could (some of the warm fuzziness could have been my burning lungs), I realized why people hadn’t moved the trees – there was just so many of them. They must have fallen down in the storm. We move what we can and leave the rest for the people with chain saws.
What I was thinking about the whole time was the NPR story I heard on the radio before I started riding. This author (or the character in his story, whatever) was dying and so he decided he was going to stop reading Tolstoy and stop keeping a journal. He found that reading and writing caused him to live outside of the the now. It reminded me of when we’d go on cross country road trips and my Dad would fuss about me listening to my Walkman. He was right (I’d still do it – riding in a car is boring and I am not dying) because it caused me to be disconnected from the place where I was, instead of appreciating it.
I still want an MP3 player.