Three out of four of us started our walk at 5:30 this morning. An hour later, after a blister took one out and teaching kindergarten took the other, I slammed on my over-ear headphones, twisted my watch, and observed 2.5 miles, then vowed to double it as quickly as possible.
Alone in the dawn’s darkness, I felt strong—jogging in stretches, slowing for a few strides, then pushing back to a higher pace. My once-troublesome knee felt like it didn’t have a care in the world, moving steadily and confidently beneath me like an Arabian show horse.
At a lull in the car lights while on the back edge of the track-like sidewalk, I spotted a shadowy figure. Unable to tell if they were coming toward me or walking away made the hairs on my neck stand up like a cat’s, my mind jumping to, “Who walks straight at a woman alone in the park, unless…..” Seconds later, I realized we were going in the same direction, lessening my perception of the threat, but the damage had been done. The radio station within had switched from feeling secure to insecure.
The phrase “scared of your own shadow” rang true. When an overhead light shifted, casting mine to the right, I flinched at it like I was about to be hit in the knee. Knowing that I was not ice skating champion Nancy Kerrigan and that no one would benefit from mauling me with a Fred Flintstone-sized club had me feeling silly.
Oh, how the curse of an overactive imagination is much more entertaining when I’m sitting here later, safe at home, telling you about it.
That experience had me reflecting on my most vulnerable memories and realizing the pain I felt didn’t stem from what someone else had done to me, but from how I’d interpreted it. The story I create about something and the way it builds to Mount Everest-esque drama.
Earlier, Joey and I spent an hour on the phone discussing the sixth chapter of Steering the Craft, specifically the use of first-person (I) versus third-person (he/she). After reading the exercise aloud, we spiraled into a conversation about perspective from both psychological and philosophical angles. At one point, my attention wandered to our mailbox—a blend of a post made by Dave’s brother and a box bought from the local hardware store. It stood like a saluting soldier, solemn and steadfast. But then I zoomed out, taking in the porch where I sat, the landscape, and the stack of moments and memories that led to this one. The shift from focusing on the small details to the bigger picture, and the sadness that came with knowing it was all fleeting, felt like a transdimensional experience. Joey, without even realizing it, was narrating how I felt at that moment.
Now I’m watching TikTok, procrastinating on putting the finishing touches on this post. I think it’s because “finishing touches” aren’t my forte. I’ll get myself to 85% and then say, “Eh, good enough.” So, here’s to “good enough.”
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 