Written by B. Ryan O’Meara
For some perverse reason, I’m going to try and write a little blog post every day. Sometimes long, other times short. Just for fun.
Like, for instance, I had this thought of the commute to work. Take my wife. She rides her bike 5.5 miles to the train station in the morning along unsafe roads, boards the express NJ Transit train up to Newark-Penn Station, hops on the PATH train to World Trade Center, then walks almost a mile to her building. Door to door: 2 hours (4 hours a day, 20 hours a week commuting. No wonder why she’s so tired.)
Ick.
But the commute, that distance between home and work, isn’t always physical. It can be mental.
I have the pleasure—but sometimes curse—of working at home, yet it still takes me about three hours to get to work. My commute is mental.
I ride with Mellie to the train station because it’s dark and scary and threatening in some areas. I come back home, walk the dogs for an hour, meditate for 15 minutes, write in the journal for another 15-20 minutes, make my coffee, cook my breakfast, then read, then I’m usually ready to put my ass in the chair and work on my book or a long feature or a column I have due.
Mellie has that horrible physical commute. Mine, while not horrible, is of the mental varietal. Both provide the mind with preparation for the word day.
