9/22/04
Monday was my first day of school. I have to commute 100 miles to The Big City for classes. Actually, because parking is so limited and expensive downtown where campus is, AND because I most certainly don't conform to the profile of an early riser who might successfully make the 2-hour commute to arrive on time for an 8:00 class, I've decided to stay with my brother's family on Sunday nights and zip into town on the train Mondays. What a new and daunting trick for this old dog! So I went on line and spent at least an hour (or two) reading every scrap of information I could find relative to the various lines and stops and alternate routes I would be taking. I scoured maps and zoomed in and out and in again and ended up printing five pages -- in color -- of my trip plans. I bought tickets and counted stops. I drew circles and arrows and wrote instructions to myself about fares and zones and validators and time lines and anything else that wandered through my line of sight. Then I went and visited the park and ride (twice, just to make sure I remembered how to get there). Finally the big day arrived... and it was kind of like breathing. Nothing to it. Later I confessed all of this to someone I know, brandishing my sheaf of instructions, and we had a good belly laugh over what a small-town girl I am.
Anyway, the insight, for what it's worth, had to do with my pattern of expending great thunderheads of energy doing what comes naturally.
