“I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour of four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for.” – Henry David Thoreau
Thank You Mr. Thoreau, for I’m feeling the same way lately, except…I would gladly take a four o’clock walk. (Temperature permitting.)
The Siberian Express is cramping my ambulant lifestyle! I’m barely managing to oil the rust by tramping through all sorts of indoor venues. How I miss my alfresco day trips.
I’m starting to feel “nofreshairophobia.” (and it’s only been one, maybe two days!)
Can a person be addicted to “fresh air?”
“Hi my name is Karen, and I breathe in more than my share of fresh air everyday.”
I feel I owe my body sincere reparation if I don’t get it outside at least once during the day for a nice, long, walk.
When I am outdoors, it’s almost as if I can feel the killer cells in my immune system romp, stretch, and roll out their little functions, who am I to deny them this daily bout of cell bolstering pleasure?
In place of an afternoon cup of coffee, the stroll and the rhythm of the stroll percolates the alloy of my mood to engage in a fusion – which energizes, as it relaxes – an enerlaxing hybrid of thinking I’ve come to crave.
Away from sedentary posture, my circulatory system acts like the guests at a Tudor banquet. Filling their platelets with multiple courses of wafts, puffs and all manner of exotic and ambient air.
There it is. More than just obligatory maintenance preventing rust, my walk reaches deeper to super charge the microcosm of my being.
This can’t last forever.
Did you ever miss your walk? Ever feel like screaming…
(This post is dedicated to the people of the East Coast and particularly to those in the walking city of Boston, where life is an enormous challenge this winter.)