Distant, disinterested, that was my stance when some in-laws came to dinner last night--not uncordial, not impolite, not uncommunicative but internally disengaged.
The siblings were busy talking about the meal, each other, plans for the summer, family news, pending issues, and, in fact, doing something they haven't done in a while, being all together.
What made me so boring to myself? It had been a whole day of good but unmemorable, unchallenging tasks, I had finished an intriguing book: A Philosophy of Walking by Frederic Gros, and, pondering it, I was already in cruise mode when the sisters arrived and the processes of hospitality got underway: where shall we eat? do you like parsnips? can I get some....?
So many of these things I'd heard before. Yay! there's progress on certain intractable problems, but... I'm not directly involved in them. Some standard role-playing. Family sagas, a tedious genre. Babies, visits, new apartments. missed birthdays. Nutrition talk again? Anybody interested in my concerns? No, but then I'm not much either. Consideration of larger issues political, moral, philosophical: absent. Already predisposed to inattention, nothing roused me.
Gros writes: 'The repetitiveness of walking eliminates boredom...In a state of boredom, one is always seeking something to do, despite the obvious futility of any activity. When walking, there is always something to do: walk.'
Walking, long-distance walking, landscape-lavish walking: maybe that was the pedal note running through my deep musing mind. Tight little schedules, minutiae of care-giving, precision of protocols, ugh! Rather, open road, fresh encounter, uncluttered agenda.
I'm in the process of buying some ultralight camping equipment for what I hope will be extended walking tours. I'm dreaming of Corsica and GR 20, the Pennine Way, across this so ample country...something immersive and engrossing.
Enough. I'm off. At least the Blue Hills.
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