In a comment regarding an earlier post, Robert, the perspicacious perambulator of Solitary Walker fame, remarked as to how he was amazed at the amount of activities I always seem to manage to pack into a day. Moi? For a moment there, I thought he'd posted his comment onto the wrong blog. I do hope he was joking…otherwise, I've unintentionally misled those of you who faithfully read this drivel.
As anyone who's witnessed my working capacity knows, I'm no example of a busy bee. Quite often my daily accomplishments are so insignificant as to remain invisible. Between old injuries, various health flaws, and creeping geezerhood, I now tend to work in spurts and stutters—sometimes getting a fair amount of things done, but more often taking three times the time and four times the energy needed to finish a task properly. It doesn't help that I'm a semi-perfectionist and always want (though don't always get) a thing done just so. Equally problematic is my weakness for distractions and an inclination to never let a deckside rocking chair remain empty too long—especially not when birds are flitting about the nearby feeders and the sun is shining on the flowing river.
At best, I'm a bumbling bee.
What I do often substitute for accomplishment—and thence write about—is movement. I've always passionately adored getting into a vehicle and going…wherever. Destination was seldom as important as just watching the miles pass by, though the more rural the backroads, the better. From the day I got my first car, a used 1956 army-green VW "Beetle," I've practically lived on the road—regularly chalking up 100,000 miles and more per year. In my teens, I thought nothing of attending school all day, getting off in the afternoon and going to my part-time job, and once that was done—about 9:00 p.m.—getting into my beloved old car and driving around out in the country, windows down, radio on, until 1:00—2:00 a.m. before heading home for a brief sleep before doing the whole scenario over. My parents didn't exactly approve, but they knew my restless nature and understood enough to trust me to stay out of trouble. It was one of the real gifts I received from them, for during those long, solitary nighttime drives, I learned much about myself, about life, and about the roads I wanted to travel.
I also discovered safety in being a moving target.