Without the car the other day,
I cycled to my breakfast meeting.
Visited the restaurant’s restroom to wipe down
before joining my fellow breakfasteers at the table.
Cycled home thereafter … and changed clothes!
Walked to work—
got word of a parishioner in the hospital—
walked over there,
then to the school to pick up the girls—home.
I’m really not used to being the means by which I get around.
I’m not used to how it taxes my muscles.
I’m not used to the time it takes.
I’m not used to the amount of laundry it generates.
I could’ve borrowed a car.
Friends and co-workers have all offered.
And there are other days
on which I take them up on their generosity—
days with meetings and hospitals further away—
days more full—rainy days—days more humid.
But that day—that day,
there was something about the independence of it—
the freedom—quite exhilarating.
As if there was more me that day—
not just in meetings and conversations,
but also in the getting to and from—the walking up and the walking down,
and I celebrate, any day—every day, such opportunities
to introduce more of me to my days.