Day Nine

Monday, July 24
Millbury - Auburn

“There was always more in the world than men could see, walked they ever so slowly; they will see it no better going fast.”
--John Ruskin

“Walking takes longer... than any other known form of locomotion except crawling. Thus it stretches time and prolongs life. Life is already too short to waste on speed.”
--Edward Abbey

“Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.”
--Steven Wright

But who’s got the time? Almost everyone I know is too busy. Too busy to take advantage of opportunities that come their way, too busy to enjoy the things they have, too busy to try something new. I’ve seen their calendars—all those little spaces scrawled over with times and places and people to meet. With so many people keeping so busy, we must be accomplishing a lot, eh? Then why is it that most everyone I know feels like they can’t keep up with demands? Like they just can’t ever get around to finishing the things they start? Like time is slipping away at an alarming rate and all they have to show for it is a little more gray hair, a few more aches and pains, and a lot more debt?

Walking along busy Route 20 today—four lanes of speeding traffic without a let-up; thundering trucks whizzing by—Ken and I seem to be the only things not in a hurry. Everybody is on their way somewhere, and I can tell from the blank looks on their faces that their minds are already there, looking ahead to the next task, the next deadline, the next duty.

They don’t even see me walking here. I don’t exist for them until they are right up on me. Suddenly I am a distraction and possible danger because they weren’t expecting to see a PERSON in their transit-space. They don’t see the other drivers on the road, just their vehicles when they get in the way. I wonder, did they see their spouses this morning before getting in their cars? Did they see their kids? Or were they just obstacles in the way of getting to where they were going?

Somebody once said that the problem with the “rat race” is that even if you win it, you are still a rat. And I think there’s a lot of truth in that. A lot of us (and I include myself in this) delude ourselves with the notion that somehow the end is going to justify the means for us. Yes, we are keeping up an unhealthy pace; we are not paying enough attention to the people we love; we are delaying gratifications and doing without things we really love, but it is only for a little while until we get where we are going. It’s just until we get that promotion, or pay off that loan, or get that degree. It’s just until we get the kids off to school, or until we get the kids through college, or until we retire. For many of us, there is no end to the chain of demands. And even if we do make it—if we win the rat race—we discover that the race has indeed changed us.

In my last outing, when Leslie and I first turned onto Rt. 20 heading west, I felt a little pull on my internal gyroscope. After all, if we just kept going west on Rt. 20 far enough, eventually we’d come to the town where I grew up in western New York state. Home always exerts a little tug on the heartstrings, even from this distance. But that “homeward bound” notion was soon overwhelmed by the starkness of where we walked. Parking lots, car dealerships, and strip clubs line the route. Totally commercial, this is easily the ugliest stretch of my walk so far.

Drivers race by, not noticing that either I suppose. As I walk, I think of this road as symbolic of so much of contemporary living: transit-space that we occupy temporarily on our way to somewhere else. “Keep it moving folks, there’s nothing here to see!” Maintain minimum speed limit. No stopping or standing. No U-turns allowed.

I stopped to pick up a penny lying on the side of the road. This is happening a lot. I must be averaging 20-30 cents a day in change (mostly pennies) that I find on the ground. I wonder why they are there. I can understand finding coins outside of busy convenience stores or in drive-thru window lanes. But why is there a coin on the side of the road halfway between two central Massachusetts towns?

And what’s with the underwear? Every single day I’ve walked, I’ve seen at least one pair of men’s shorts lying on the side of the road. They are always briefs. Never boxers. As much as I don’t like it, I can understand people tossing cans, butts, and coffee cups on the side of the road as they drive by…but money and underpants? And just for the record, men, it seems that your chances of returning home tonight with the same underwear you put on before you left home this morning are statistically greater if you wear boxers.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, pennies on the road. Last Sunday in church I based my children’s sermon on the pennies I’ve found. I asked why it was that people didn’t bother to pick up so many pennies. Maybe they just didn’t see them lying there. Maybe they were too busy doing other things, or in a big hurry to get somewhere, or just not paying attention. Or maybe they saw the pennies but didn’t think it was worth bending over to pick them up. After all, pennies aren’t worth much, are they? People don’t want to waste their time and energy picking up measly pennies.

But every penny is legal tender. The scuffed up one on the ground is worth the same as the shiny one in the cashier’s drawer. Each one has value and when gathered up, they can add up to quite a sum.

I’ve determined that I will pick up every coin I see along this walk. And I’ll use those moments of bending down (symbolically humbling myself) to think of the people I’ve seen that have been figuratively left behind on the side of the road; the people who are scuffed and dirtied, beaten down and beaten up; the people who often aren’t considered worth the bother, or who we don’t even notice anymore. Each one of them has individual value, dignity, and worth. Who knows what they might be capable of if they can be “gathered up” into a caring community? I want to use the found pennies as reminders that the people we see (or often don’t see) struggling around us, aren’t just obstructions or dangers in our “transit space,” but are PERSONS sharing our path.

Day Eight

Saturday, July 8
Grafton - Millbury

Today was the first day I was able to walk with my wife, Leslie Lee. We often walk around the neighborhood where we live—usually in the cool of the night. But this walk was a bit different. Quite a bit longer, a whole lot hotter, and lots more whizzing traffic! Today’s update is written by Leslie, as she reflects on her first leg on the Haystack Walk…

Today’s roadside sightings:
16 pennies
1 nickel
1 chipmunk, dead
1 frog, dead
1 rodent, unidentifiable remains
1 cat, sleeping
4 glass bottles: 3 nip size, missing labels, and 1 pint vodka (all empty)
1 piece dental floss, unused
1 doll head, plastic
1 giant inflatable Maytag repairman
2 sets Christmas lights still up
10 fake Christmas wreaths
1 plastic lawn chair, broken
1 free recliner
2 strip clubs: The Lamplighter II and Centerfolds ("16 New Girls This Week")
1 handmade sign: "Happy Birthday Forrest from Jenny"

When Steve and I started our 5.5 mile walk on Saturday, I looked at my wonderful husband and thought of all that he has accomplished so far in this walk and said to myself, "Wow, the things a guy will do to get out of cleaning the basement!”

As we walked along Rte. 140, I was quickly distracted by how flat it really was. There were only two noticeable inclines during the entire walk, and even those were far from strenuous. Then I remembered something an acquaintance said last year. After she'd flown out to Indiana for a wedding, someone asked, "What was Indiana like?" "Flat," she said. And I wondered what gauge she'd used to determine that. The majestic peaks of Weymouth where she lives? Or the rolling hills of Dedham where she works? All I know is it couldn't have been Rte. 140 between Grafton and Millbury.

When I moved to Massachusetts from Missouri seven years ago, I spent a good deal of time in complete amazement at how different everything was. After all, the Dunkin Donuts in my hometown went out of business about 20 years ago. This is enough to make the two states polar opposites, forget the whole red/blue thing.

Before I moved, I decided to ready myself for the barrage of questions about my homeland from the curious New English, so I studied up on the state facts of Missouri. To be honest, I did it out of fear. I just assumed that highly educated Massachusetts residents might know more about Missouri than I did, and I didn't want my meager state university degree to show. But it didn't take long to discover the awful truth.

People here know hardly anything about Missouri, and they don't ask.

So let's talk about Indiana.

After doing some research, I now know many interesting facts about both Indiana and Massachusetts. In 2000, the population of Indiana was 6,080,485. In Massachusetts, it was 6,349,097.

Indiana is, in fact, physically flat. http://www.50states.com/ describes Indiana’s topography as "hilly southern region; heavily glaciated north; dunes along Lake Michigan shore; fertile rolling plains in central region; flat," while Massachusetts can be proud of its "jagged indented coast around Cape Cod; flatland yields to stony upland pastures near central region and gentle hill country in west; land in west is rocky, sandy and not fertile."

Massachusetts may be unique for its many traffic rotaries, but Crawfordsville, Indiana is the home of the only known working rotary jail in the United States. The jail with its rotating cellblock was built in 1882 and served as the Montgomery County jail until 1972. It is now a museum.

Massachusetts has some museums, too.

David Letterman was born April 12, 1947, in Indianapolis. The lowest rated viewership of "The Late Show with David Letterman" is in Barnstable, Massachusetts. (Possible explanation? Well, the average age of its residents might just have something to do with it. Barnstable is the only county in Massachusetts where deaths outnumbered births between 1990 and 1997.)

Although Indiana means "Land of the Indians," only 0.3% of the population is comprised of Native Americans. Massachusetts: also 0.3%. The national average is 1%.

Oh sure, the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, but the first professional baseball game was played in Fort Wayne on May 4, 1871.

Massachusetts' motto is "Ense petit placidam sub libertate quietem" (I think that's Latin), meaning "By the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty." Peru, Indiana was once known as the "Circus Capital of America."

Not to drag Vermont into this, but listen up: Historic Parke County of Indiana has 32 covered bridges and is the Covered Bridge Capital of the World. Of the WORLD.

The Saturday Evening Post is published in Indianapolis. But guess what? There is a house in Rockport built entirely of newspaper!

And finally, just when you think you know your regional zones and divisions, Indiana is technically part of the midwest but it's actually in two time zones. 74 eastern counties are in the Eastern Time Zone and 18 western counties are in the Central Time Zone. That means you could have brunch in one county and then, an hour earlier, have breakfast in the next. Indiana "flat?" I think not!

After seven years of living in Massachusetts (and a 5.5 mile walk), I have learned that in general, things are not all that different, especially from the side of the road. Concrete is concrete, pavement is pavement, and none of it is red or blue. It's all gray. I'm sure there's a giant inflatable Maytag repairman somewhere in Indiana, maybe one in each time zone. There are dead animals, lucky pennies, and exotic dancers everywhere. And somewhere in this great country, a movie fan is hunkered down watching "Forrest Gump," believing that a man walking across an entire state can make a difference in someone's life.

Day Seven

Friday, July 7

Mendon - Grafton

"It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end." - Ursula K. LeGuin

Today’s walk offered a tiny preview of coming attractions. Quite a bit of incline--nothing too severe yet, but I found out what puts the “Up” in Upton! And today, for the first time on the walk, after going uphill for some distance I reached a crest, where I could look out over the houses and see lush, wooded hillsides on the horizon. A foretaste of the walking I’m really looking forward to out west!

The walking is getting easier. By the time Paul and Steven met up with me I’d already logged 5 miles for the morning and still felt strong. Still felt pretty good 6 or 7 miles later, when Paul warned me that the next couple of miles included a pretty big hill, and wondered if maybe I was ready to call it a day. But I figured—hey, I’m already hot and sweaty and tired…it can’t get much worse than that, can it? And maybe I could avoid having to START the next walk with a big hill. So I decided to keep on.

Seemed like a pretty good idea at the time! The idea got dumber by the stride, but I made it up the hill to Grafton Common, and called it a day after 13.5 miles.

A friend from Maine warned me when I started this walk, that I might just discover that walking is addictive. I’m beginning to see what she was talking about. Already, I find myself missing walking on the days between outings. I don’t know if I’ve really pushed myself yet to the point of experiencing an “endorphin rush”…maybe just an endorphin “flush” or two…but there’s a real emotional satisfaction I feel with each day’s accomplishment, and a pleasant feeling of having exerted myself.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself, when I had a conversation with a writer friend who helped me put my 200 mile walk in perspective. He told me he was working on a story about a Chronic Fatigue sufferer, who was just completing a 2,400 mile walk from Chicago to Los Angeles! Yow!

And 2,400 miles falls far short of setting any records. A surprising number of apparently sane (or at least MOSTLY sane) men and women have set out to cross the country on coast to coast walks. Some do it out of the spirit of adventure and love of the open road. Some do it to promote causes or make political statements. Some do it, seeking health for mind, body, and spirit.

That was the goal of Steve Vaught, who recently walked over the George Washington Bridge into New York City, marking the end of his cross-country walk. Steve weighed about 400 pounds when he set out from southern California—and lost over 100 of those pounds in the course of his year-and-a-half walk. Vaught, a 39-year old father of two, realized that his weight-gain and life-style were slowly killing him, and so he set out to “lose weight and regain my life” by walking across America.

On his “Fat Man Walking” website, he shared his thoughts and insights along the way. “I hope to remind people like me,” Vaught wrote, “that we each have the strength and ability to do anything we want. Losing weight is a choice the same as continuing to exist in this terrible condition is a choice. I have decided to live! It really is a simple decision when you think about it.”

Hearing about Vaught’s journey was one of the inspirations for me to undertake this “Haystack Walk.”

Ultra-long-distance walking in this country has been around at least since the middle of the 19th Century. That’s when a 21-year old New Englander named Edward Payson Weston caught America’s imagination by walking from Boston to Washington D.C. for Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration. He covered the 443 miles in 208 hours. After that success, he went on to impress a generation with his walking exploits over the next 53 years—earning a reputation as one of the greatest athletes of his time.

In 1909, at the age of 70, Weston set out walking from New York City. 3,800 miles and 105 days later he arrived in San Francisco. But Weston considered this amazing feat a failure, because he had predicted he could do it in 100 days. So the next year, at age 71, he walked back to New York, this time covering 3,600 miles in only 76 days.

Pretty impressive for age 71!...at least until you hear about the story of Granny D—the 90-year old New Hampshire woman who walked 3,200 miles across country to raise awareness about the issue of campaign finance reform. Starting in January 1999, for 14 months, she averaged 10 miles a day—and had enough wind left over to make political speeches all along the way! Blizzard conditions made it impossible for her to walk along the side of the road at the end of her trek—so she SKIED the last 100 miles into Washington D.C.!

3,200 miles in a more-or-less straight line across the country may seem like enough…but consider the trek of Don Vermilyea, who recently concluded his cross-country walking. No straight lines for brother Don! He meandered up and down and back and forth through something like 30 states, visiting every church of his Brethren denomination that would invite him along the way. Don walked for four years—a total of 19,502 miles. Don had a knack for finding lost coins along the side of the road. Most of them were only pennies, but over the four years the coins he picked up totaled $1,698.50!!!

For some people, a whole continent isn’t enough. Dave Kunst of Waseca Minnesota is the first man (verified) on record to walk completely around the world. He set out with his brother John and a pack mule named “Willie Makeit” on June 20, 1970. “Willie Makeit”, um, didn’t. Neither did his replacement “Willie Makeit II” or the mule that replaced him.

Tragically, neither did Dave’s brother John. While walking through Afghanistan, Dave and John were attacked by robbers who beat Dave and killed John. Dave persevered, however, and after four years and 21 pairs of shoes, he finished his round-the-world trek on October 5, 1974.

And if that isn’t extreme enough—consider the case of Arthur Blessit, an itinerate evangelist who has traveled the world, walking across all seven continents—while carrying a 40 pound, twelve-foot wooden cross! That is an actual distance on foot of 36,651 miles!!!

What made these folks do it? What force propelled their weary legs over so many miles?

I’ve walked 72 miles now to date. So far, I have seen just the faintest glimpse of what these folks must have seen, to compel them to walk their walks--a vision of the body connecting with the earth, its home…the harmony of going out and finding yourself deep within…a sense of humility in the face of great distance—and yet the driving faith that we CAN reach the goal we strive for if we just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I don’t know if I’m “addicted” yet—but I can’t wait for my next day to walk!

Day Six

Monday, July 3, 2006
Wrentham - Mendon

“All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are movable, and those that move.” --Benjamin Franklin

Today is my longest walk so far—12 miles—and I passed through more different towns (4) than on any other day: Wrentham, Franklin, Bellingham and Mendon. Good walking—sidewalks much of the way, and not much trash! The day ends with a long, slow upgrade to the Hopedale town line that has my legs singing to me. But I remind them that this is nothing compared to the Berkshires that wait for me when I get to the western part of the state!

A good chunk of this walk took me through Franklin, and I was fortunate to have Barry Kasindorf walking with me. Barry lives in Franklin, and filled me in on some of the history (and knew the best place to stop for breakfast!). Originally called Exeter, the town changed its name to Franklin when it was incorporated in 1778, in honor of Benjamin Franklin. It is the birthplace of Horace Mann, a pioneer in public education, and is the site of The Red Brick School—the nation's oldest continuously operational one-room school, built in 1792.

It also lays claim to having the first public lending library in the country. The story goes that when they took on the name “Franklin” the people of the town asked Ben to donate a bell to them. Instead of that, Franklin donated a collection of books to the town, telling them that “sense was preferable to sound.” Those books are still on display in the library today.

I’ve been reading up on the Founding Fathers, and am struck by what exceptional men they were. And of all those extraordinary men, perhaps the one that stood out the most was Franklin. A printer by trade, an inventor by inclination, a self-educated scholar (he was fluent in five languages), a prolific writer, a public servant by nature, and a Founding Father by circumstance—Franklin was both a jack of all trades and a master of them all.

He was never elected to national office, but played a major role in our young nation’s development—serving as ambassador to England and France, and negotiating major treaties (including the treaty that ended the Revolution). Franklin was the one who presented the First Continental Congress with the draft of our original Articles of Confederation. Later he signed both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. He was instrumental in establishing our postal system. He founded the country’s first Fire Department (1736), and its first Fire Insurance Company (1752). Franklin invented bifocals, the flexible catheter, the lightning rod, the Franklin stove, and the odometer. He helped found schools that went on to become the University of Pennsylvania and Franklin and Marshall. He’s the guy who thought up Daylight Savings Time.

I once invented a new way to remove the peel from an orange.

Franklin even invented a musical instrument—the armonica, or glass harmonica. He did that by cutting the stems off wine glasses of varying sizes, and drilling through the bottoms of the glasses. He corked the holes, and mounted the glasses (in order of increasing size) onto a horizontal spindle. The spindle was rotated at a rapid speed, by a mechanism hooked up to a foot pedal. The armonica was played by dampening your fingers, and touching the edges of the rotating glasses.

I once cut my finger on the edge of a wine glass.

Franklin was an enigma by anyone’s standard of judgment. He is one of our country’s best-known moralists, having written the pithy words of wisdom the young nation read in Poor Richard’s Almanacs for so many years (“Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise” “Little strokes fell great oaks” “There are no gains, without Pains” “Keep thy shop and thy shop will keep thee” “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail” “Time is money”)—and yet he was also known for his dalliances with the ladies, and for fathering at least one child out of wedlock.

He was a man of deep faith (it was Franklin that called on the Constitutional Convention to stop and pray for divine guidance when it reached a particularly steep impasse) and yet his faith was hard to define. The Quakers claimed him, sort of. I believe he considered himself a Christian—but to the end of his life he had a hard time believing in the divinity of Jesus.

Today, Franklin lies buried in the graveyard of Christ Church in Philadelphia. The grave is simply marked with the names Benjamin and Deborah Franklin, and the date 1790. But he once wrote an epitaph for himself:

“The body of B. Franklin, Printer (Like the Cover of an Old Book Its Contents Torn Out and Stript of its Lettering and Guilding) Lies Here, Food for Worms. But the Work shall not be Lost; For it will (as He Believ’d) Appear Once More In a New and More Elegant Edition Revised and Corrected Bythe Author.”

“Sense is preferable to sound”—maybe that’s a message we need to hear again today. It seems like there are a lot of people running around in positions of political and moral leadership, making a lot of sound. We raise our voices to shout down anyone who disagrees with us. We gather and disseminate information by “sound bytes.” But how often do we take the time to really think things through, to really hear and understand what our “opponents” are trying to say, and together to make SENSE out of things?

Patrick Henry was the Founding Father that may have come up with the single best “sound byte” of the Revolutionary period, when he said “Give me liberty or give me death!” But when it came time to write the Constitution, Henry boycotted the sessions, loudly denouncing the efforts of the framers, because, as he put it he “smelled a rat.” Franklin, on the other hand, attended the sessions faithfully, despite advanced age and its accompanying aches and pains. He said very little during the course of the debates, but he was one of the glues that held the convention together.

Today it seems to me that we have way too many Patrick Henrys—eager to denounce, but unwilling to engage those who disagree—and far too few Ben Franklins!

Days Four and Five

Thursday, June 29, 2006
Mansfield - Foxboro

Friday, June 30. 2006
Foxboro - Wrentham

Two days of shorter distances round out this week—and now I’m just about 20% of the way there! These are easy-walking days. Sidewalks most of the way, less trash along the side of the street—and good company both days!

Walking with someone is very different from walking alone. I pay less attention to the things I’m walking past. I don’t have the chorus of internal voices—or the times of reflection. But I do have good conversation. So many everyday verbal encounters with other people never get beneath the surface of anything—it is a good (and fairly unusual!) thing to have the time and space to focus and to settle into a long conversation with one person!

I find myself paying a lot of attention to numbers on this walk. I’ve been keeping a log with “vital statistics” from distances covered (40.8 miles), to time walking (14.8 hours)--which lets me calculate my average speed (2.76 mph)--to how many bottles of water I’ve drunk (16), to how many Nutri-Grain bars I’ve consumed (4), to how many rude gestures/remarks I’ve been on the receiving end of (2) so far on my walk.

Here’s an interesting number: Today (Day #5) of the walk, I burned 476 calories! I got that number from a formula that takes into account my body weight, the speed I walked on the average, and the distance I covered. There’s a website online that will calculate that number for me if I plug in the figures. Not only that, but it will tell me what I can now afford to eat, since I burned off that many calories--what I have earned the right to eat, without feeling any guilt, because of my walking efforts!

For my four miles in an hour and fifteen minutes today, according to that site, I could afford to eat a meal consisting of “one can of refried beans and 1/8 of a Marie Calendar Dutch Apple pie.”

Mmmm! Now there's some good eating!

My favorite hypothetical “meal” earned so far on this walk was from Monday. Nearly 10 miles of walking that day burned off 940 calories, which earned me a meal of “50 Reese’s pieces, 2 tsp mustard, one can of Chili Mac, and 1/8 of a Marie Calendar Dutch Apple pie.” (looks like somebody has a commercial tie-in with Marie Calendar’s!)

My only question is: do I put the mustard on the Reese’s pieces or on the apple pie?

My slowest walking day so far was Day #1, when I walked with the kids (2.2 mph). My fastest was Day #4, with Carolyn, averaging almost 3.5 mph. But what does it really matter? Why do I get obsessed with numbers? It isn’t a race. The only goal or standard I have to achieve is finishing the 200 miles on Sept. 22nd. So why do I keep looking at my watch?

I think we have a tendency to determine something’s value by a number we can put on it. From gas mileage of our cars, to batting averages of our ballplayers; from the size of our paychecks, to the credit limits on our bank cards; from net worth to number of karats…

As a coffeehouse presenter I judge how good a show was by the number in attendance, and how much money we made or lost. Church, all too often, derives its sense of value from increasing membership or higher income numbers. People talk about whether a war was worth fighting or not, by talking about growing numbers of soldiers killed or dollars spent.

I do find some satisfaction when I can chart numbers out that grow in the right direction…it feels good to see that I went farther today, or faster today, or something-er today than the last time out. But that also sets me up for feeling UN-satisfied, when I come up with a smaller number of something on a given day.

A little faster? A little longer? Is that what makes something meaningful? A little slower? A little shorter? Does that really take the meaning away from something?

There is value and meaning in every day of the journey. Not just the spectacular ones; not just the record-breaking ones; not just the ones with impressive numbers. Every task we undertake yields purpose. Every concert is an opportunity for something unique and beautiful to happen—regardless of how many or few people hear it. Every person sitting in the pew can receive—and can give—empowerment and value and grace and joy…not just the people who sit in congregations that are growing numerically.

Now excuse me—I have to warm up my refried beans and apple pie!

Day Three

Tuesday, June 27 , 2006
W. Bridgewater - Mansfield

“I come home to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home. I thus dispose of the superfluous and see things as they are, grand and beautiful. I have told many that I walk every day about half the daylight, but I think they do not believe it. I wish to get the Concord, the Massachusetts, the America, out of my head and be sane a part of every day.” --Henry David Thoreau’s Journal, January 7, 1857

For Thoreau, walking was both an escape and a homecoming. Walking was a way to distance himself from the daily concerns of society and community—the “superfluous” as he put it; the artificial distractions that keep us from experiencing our true “home.” Walking helped him see and think clearly; to gain perspective; to find those moments of sanity. In fact, Thoreau claimed that what he found in walking was “equivalent to what others get by churchgoing and prayer.”

Walking alone today—without even a “chase car” checking up on me from mile to mile—I truly have time to think. My body has a task—walking. The speeding cars and trucks, and the lack of sidewalks (or even shoulders at times) along the road keep me alert and in the present moment. But there are no phone calls, or emails, or other voices in the room. The only voices are the ones in my head—and with this delicious commodity of TIME, I can actually sort some of them out and listen to what they are saying.

No “trashpicking” for me today. Oh, the bottles and cans are still all over the place—but without a convenient car trunk nearby, I’m not going to be lugging them with me all 11 miles. With my beard and belly, I already look ENOUGH like Santa Claus, without adding a huge bulging sack over my shoulder! NO (ho ho) thank you very much!

Today is just for walking and thinking.When do you do your best thinking? For me, it is times like this. Away from the office, where interruptions are constant…not in meetings (it is always AFTER the meetings, in my car on the way home that I think of the best things I SHOULD have said!)…not in classrooms, when we are too busy trying to take information down to really think about it…not at home after a day’s work, when I’m most likely to pick up a book, or turn on the tube, or get on the internet.

For me, one of the best “thinking times” has been on long drives in the car—such as when I drive the 400 miles to visit my Dad. I’m in the car for 6-7 hours with no competing voices (if I keep the radio off). I’ve been able to think problems through, or write songs, or dream up new ideas (such as this walk I’m on today!) with that kind of time to just sit still and think.

Why are we so resistant to building quiet times to think into our daily schedules? Why is it that our first impulse on entering the living room, is often to turn on the TV. Or the first thing we do after starting up the car is turn on the radio. We constantly bombard ourselves with voices and sounds that fill in every moment of silence…denying those potential pregnant pauses a chance to give birth to new ideas.

In the Gospels, time and again, we see instances where Jesus leaves his followers behind and goes off into the hills, or somewhere, to just be alone. His life is a busy one, with constant demands being made on him from all sides. And the only way that he can cope; can stay focused; can listen for that inner voice of guidance—is to turn everything off, and find moments of quiet and solitude.

Maybe two or three half-hour news broadcasts a day were enough, and we don’t really need the 24-hour news channels. Maybe a handful of television channels are enough, and we don’t need the 400-channel deluxe packages. Maybe we could use a quiet time every day, or a quiet evening once a week, or a quiet day once a month to really THINK and reflect.

Day Two

Monday, June 26, 2006
Halifax - W. Bridgewater

I’ve never understood littering. What is the impulse that drives someone to throw garbage out of a moving car? Walking with the kids last Friday, we began to notice more and more debris along the side of the road. By the end of the walk, we were actually picking up cans, which we’ll turn in for deposits and add to the donation we make to the Katrina survivors in Biloxi. But what we picked up hardly made a dent in the roadside debris. If we had really tried to clean up as we walked, we wouldn’t have covered any distance at all. What a mess!

Cans, bottles, wrappers, butts, fast food cups, paper… Today I had Paul riding “chase” for me, so I picked up cans as I walked—only ones that I didn’t have to go off the road to reach. Paul would drive a mile ahead of me and wait with the car on the side of the road, so I could empty my bag into the trunk—and we ended up with a pretty full trunk.

But why? Is it that much easier to roll down the window and throw out a piece of trash, than to put it in a bag inside the car and throw it out later? Or is there some kind of emotional need littering meets? Is it a sense of power, or entitlement, or the thrill of doing something you aren’t supposed to do? Does it make some people feel like James Dean? Or is it an expression of resentment—as in “I have to put up with garbage from my boss at work, and from my spouse and kids at home, so by golly I’m just gonna DISH OUT some trash!”

Or is it a lack of enforcement? When was the last time you heard of someone ticketed for littering? Do folks litter simply because they know nothing will happen to them? Maybe we should consider following California’s lead, where they take littering very seriously. In California the punishment for first-time littering starts at a $100 fine and eight hours of picking up roadside litter. A defendant's third offense and all subsequent offenses are punished with a minimum penalty of a $750 fine and 24 hours of litter cleanup per offense. (Cal. Veh. Code § 42001.7)

Or is it a simple lack of self-respect. We take care of the things we love and take pride in. Have we gotten so emotionally detached from our home, planet earth, that we just don’t care if we trash it?

Or is it simply not an issue because we don’t really see it? Whizzing by at 60 miles an hour we don’t see just what a mess we’ve made, do we? But walking the road, step by step, I see it all. Maybe a metaphor here…how much garbage in my day to day life have I not even been noticing because I’ve been speeding through it, always running from one place to another; always in a hurry; always keeping busy; not even SEEING the disorder and misplaced priorities I leave in my wake?

As Paul was reaching down to pick up a can today, a motorist driving by shouted at him sneeringly out his window: “TRASHPICKER!” Here’s a comment on our society today—the guy who is taking the time and putting out the energy to CLEAN UP a mess, is the object of derision from passers-by!

One bright note—in all my walking so far, I haven’t seen a single discarded Dr. Pepper can. I’ll take that as proof that we Dr. Pepper drinkers are just a cut above the rest! The worst offenders? Going by the number of cans I’ve seen so far, I’d say by FAR, it would be drinkers of Bud Light.

“Please, please, don’t be a litterbug,
Please, please, don’t be a litterbug
Please, please, don’t be a litterbug
For every litter bit hurts!”