About two weeks ago I started Haruki Murakami's new book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, A Memoir. I finished the book and a series of bird drawings last weekend in Woodstock. Inspired, I went for jogs, hikes and swims. Jennifer and I did some bird watching in the yard. I ran in the narrow shoulder off Rt. 28 where cars sped by infrequently. My eye followed lawns and trees to the mountain range. The hot sun followed too. Breezes ruffled leaves as I drew in the evening. Crickets were comforting companions. At night we made a fire. In the morning we drank tea. Remnants of my dreams came to mind the next day. I remembered how an old art instructor used to teach contour drawing by simulating with a pencil, the act of an ant crawling ever-so-slowly around the subject. I was on automatic pilot after a few miles. Once I reached a desirable distance, I slowed down to a walk. I stretched my legs and listened to my heart beating. I walked into the middle of the road and lined up my heart's center over the two yellow lines and continued walking. I pictured the road's inexhaustible reach. A heard a vehicle approaching but was unsure from which direction. I walked back to the shoulder. Two cars sped by me simultaneously going in each direction. I crossed the street and made my way back to the house.
