On the Go

I learned to walk early, as a lot of strong-willed younger siblings do. My mother recalls that it was a struggle to have me hold still long enough for a diaper change. (Perhaps this is about the time her idyllic dreams of a half dozen children reduced to a practical two!) Ever since, I've been on the move pretty constantly. This doesn't mean I object to a little cocooning, or that I don't need to rest now and again, but there's something about motion...

Friday morning held what is probably my closest brush with a nervous breakdown in memory. I came into the office, sat morosely doing nothing, and began to weep uncontrollably. S., one of the older piano teachers at the Institute, was here to practice, and she spent about an hour putting me back together again. I'm sure a lot of this was exhaustion; after we talked, I sat and stared out the window for about twenty minutes. No thoughts, no emotion, no action. Just sitting there, taking up space. I realized how un-me this was, in a disinterested sort of way, and I canceled my morning lessons. Driving home, where I expected to sleep, practice, or both, I decided to take the long way. This little two-lane highway, which I'd rarely explored, curves out of the city into two-hundred-year-old horse country. The sun, the road, the green grass, the coming spring, the space, the act of driving ... I began to feel again. I began to be me again. I began to care. I had a lesson that afternoon, so I had my cross-campus walk in the sunshine, as well. A couple productive hours of practicing later, I felt that I was nearly functioning once more.

There's something about being on the move, going somewhere, the action of driving or walking until I'm human again, that has a way of healing me. Maybe that's why I've always been on the go.

It's a beautiful day, the first day of Spring Break -- anyone want to go for a walk with me? I don't teach until 4:30...