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An Act of the Will?
By Mike LushingtonI go through it practically every day when I am home. Occasionally it is in the morning, but, more often, especially in the winter, in the afternoon. Even though it is a daily routine for me, it nearly always involves a struggle, especially on those days when the wind blows harshly, or it is raining, or I am simply feeling indolent. This morning was no exception.
I had had to get up for an appointment in town fairly early this morning, but I had gotten back home by mid morning. I had several things that I wanted to do around the house before lunch and I managed to get most of them done. Then came lunch itself and the daily exercise afterwards that consists in making myself comfortable in my old armchair with a good book and an hour or so of reading. That is, unless I happen to doze off. No, truth be told, until I doze off. Usually it takes about ten minutes. this is not the time of day when I get any serious reading done. Today was no exception, if I exclude the fact that the telephone didn't ring to interrupt the nap, something that happens about half the time. No, I woke up at about the same time that I usually do - and then began my daily struggle with myself.
This is the time of day, most days, when I have promised myself and the dog that we will take a good long walk, snowshoe hike, ski - whatever happens to appeal most on that particular occasion. that is, whatever happened to appeal most when the whole idea itself seemed to be appealing. It is almost never so when I have just awakened from the sheer joy of an afternoon nap. It is even less so on a day like today.
As I stir in my chair I can hear the wind whistling down the chimney. Last time I looked at the thermometer that hangs by the back door it was reading -15 and I knew that it hadn't gotten any warmer in the interval. Through the front window that looks out over the river, I could see snow drifting by on the wind. In short, it was cold out there. Conversely, it was warm, deliciously, decadently warm in that old armchair. Why not succumb, just this once, to the temptation to forego the walk? After all, I had gone yesterday, and undoubtedly would again tomorrow. Besides, the wind was supposed to abate later on and tomorrow would surely be nicer. I almost convinced myself - after all, I am getting older and probably shouldn't be pushing myself so hard. I was tired after a hectic week away and was facing a busy weekend. Just this once?
And then I remembered Mico. I knew that he was sitting patiently by the back door, waiting for me and our appointed romp (well, his romp anyway - more like my trudge) in the wind and the snow and the cold. With a deep sign of self-pity, I struggled to my feet, got dressed and headed out the back door. It was definitely a snowshoe day - the wind had drifted in my tracks of yesterday and the snow was so cold that it would be like skiing on sand. Oh, well, I thought, I'll struggle up to the tracks - about a kilometre away - and let him run around - a short walk is better than nothing - after all, I'm tired, it's cold, we did this yesterday ... . Up the hill - it is always up the hill around here, both literally and metaphorically , head down, slogging through the fresh powder, puffing a bit as my recalcitrant system begins to respond to the enforced stimulus of movement. I get to the tracks - not feeling so bad at all now - decide to go a little further - and then a little further. An hour later, I am at the back end of the property - three and a half kilometres from the house, and, perversely enjoying myself - just as, deep down in the dim recesses of memories of all those yesterdays, I knew that I would. By the time I get back home, two hours or so from when I left, I am feeling disgustingly virtuous, even self-righteous. For the moment, as I pull off my heavy clothing, I forget that tomorrow will come and the whole struggle will begin all over again.