My plan is working, and it’s not. On a beautiful day about a week ago, I walked to a nearby meat market instead of driving, and was rewarded with uncharacteristically warm feelings toward my neighborhood. As a bonus, I found these daffodils growing in a flower bed alongside the church where we voted last year.
I didn’t realize until after I’d finished taking my pictures that I was crouched in front of a large window and being watched by a woman working inside the church. As soon as she saw that I’d noticed her, she gave me a huge wave with her whole arm, and I waved back before walking on. So between the walk, the sunny little flowers, and the neighborly encounter, my hard little heart started to soften that day.
But that was a week ago, and I’ve barely been outside since. Even though I know exactly why and to what degree a walk will do me good, I can’t seem to make it a priority. I blame it on the way I write: I spend the majority of any writing day sitting at the computer, waiting for the words to arrive. If I let my attention find other topics (which happens more often now that I’m in the thick, hazy midst of planning a wedding) or leave my chair for any reason, I may miss my date with the words.
It’s also inconvenient that if I want to go outside, I have to put on real pants.
I’m not giving up on this idea, though. I’ve never considered myself an indoor girl; I’m naturally happier outside. That should be motivation enough to get past the hurdles laid out by my work and the uninviting view from my windows. But I think I need to finish giving myself permission to walk away from the work and the view more often. In the meantime, we may have to settle for a Photograph Every Ten Days or So.
