Last week I tried honest bike commuting. I’m happy to pull my kids around town to events or dates, but never have I attempted a multiple legged trip. The weather was in my favor and the timing seemed plausible.
The end result was a meeting in which I’m afraid I stunk and the pressure of spending my time in productive way. Riding along the river, I wondered how people managed to fit commuting into their schedules. I tried convincing myself that this was a life-affirming use of my time, but my impatience and slight depression pushed all that needed attending to the forefront of my mind.
I arrived at my last appointment early, ten minutes ’till pick up. Around the corner from my stop was a house with a poetry box. These are big in Portland, but none are on our non-vehicle routes. I picked up the poem and recognized the poet. I read the poem as I am apt; a quick skim with no depth or attempt at teasing meaning out of the verse.
Forced to stand there, in the shade with minutes in front of me without anything I could take action on, I slowed and allow the poem to unfold.
Now I am a bit shameful, as this is not a complex poem. But in my skim/move on/understand/analyze contradictory nature, it is unusual for me to sit with any murkiness.
See: Infinite Jest. With study guide.
So thank you, people who live around the corner of the people who I happen to be connected with due to a connection with someone who I know because of the internet. Thank you for not tossing up “Two roads diverged” or the list of internet-ish joke that I later found in a box.
Thank you for this:
When We Convene Again
When we convene again
to understand the world,
the first speaker will again
point silently out the window
at the hillside in its season,
sunlit, under the snow,
and we will nod silently,
and silently stand and go.
Wendell Berry
