I have just started (okay, REstarted) an exercise program that I was very enthusiastic about many years ago, but for some reason abandoned as "too boring" - it's called (are you ready? drum roll, please):
WALKING.
That's right. Just going outside and putting one foot in front of the other. Rinse and repeat.
I used to do a lot of walking. My "real job" (the one that lasted almost twenty-five years) involved commuting to Downtown Los Angeles every morning. At first, when I lived less than four miles away, I would sometimes walk from my apartment, on the edge of scenic MacArthur Park, allllll the way to my office, on the less-daunting side of the freeway. It was a nice walk.
And whatever you may have heard about crime in the area, I never had any problems at all. (Maybe because all the drug-addicted criminals were sleeping in.)
It was nice. It was early in the morning, at sunrise. There were a few other people out as well - enough that I felt relatively safe, but not so many that I felt crowded off the sidewalk.
And I'd exchange smiles with the other early morning walkers, and occasionally a cheery "good morning". It was ... well, not to expand my vocabulary too much: NICE.
I loved it. I felt my waistline shrink, and my worldview expand, at the same time. I sat in my shabby but gorgeous Art Deco apartment in the evenings, and wrote wretched but heartfelt poetry and prose about my experiences walking through the city every day.
One example, which sadly I didn't save, was that the asphalt on the street was being torn up for some reason (probably sewer work) and the rails from the original Red Car (trolley) system were briefly, and exquisitely, exposed for several days. I wrote a poem about it and I really wish I'd saved it. I only remember the last two lines:
"There! Can you see them, glistening in the sun?
There's where the streetcars used to run."
So I was happy, and creative (more or less!).
Then three things happened which changed, and enhanced, my morning walk. First, my employer moved their offices from the sixth floor of their original building to the FIFTIETH floor of a brand new skyscraper, all the way across the freeway and wayyy up on historic Bunker Hill.
Second, the city had built the first leg of its new subway system: the Red Line, traveling all the way from MacArthur Park to Union Station.
And third, with elaborate ceremony, the long-dormant funicular railway, Angel's Flight, was rebuilt and reopened - starting from the bottom of Olive Street, right outside the Red Line entrance, to the plaza area of my building.
So here's how my walk changed. Instead of walking straight from my apartment building to my office, I walked across MacArthur Park to the new Red Line station. This meant that I still saw the beautiful park and lake every morning. But then I went down the escalator and sat on the shiny new train car and rode the rest of the four miles into Downtown Los Angeles.
Then I got out of the subway, walked a short distance to Angel's Flight, and soared majestically up the hill to the plaza, where I sauntered over to Dan's Deli to grab a croissant and a coffee. I then sat next to the scenic but phony waterfall and lake, up on the patio, and enjoyed my leisurely breakfast.
Naturally, I gained a little weight. Fortunately for me, some enterprising person invented "Curves", a place where I went every other day and bounced around on a circuit of various resistance machines. I lost weight and continued to enjoy the leisurely life.
But - I stopped writing poetry. Or anything else, for that matter.
After all, life was good. Why spoil it by trying to exert my brain?
Fast forward to now. Angel's Flight has been closed for many years, due to a series of terrible accidents.
My employer outsourced my job in 2009, so I'm no longer having those leisurely breakfasts by the phony lake.
I've gotten married and moved to the achingly beautiful San Fernando Valley, in a neighborhood with no sidewalks and no lakes (real or phony).
But now I'm trying to start walking again. And shortly after I started, I found myself wanting to sit down and write poetry again. Coincidence? I wonder.
And even though there are no abandoned trolley tracks out here, there are still things that inspire me. For example:
"Here, in Reseda, there are no sidewalks
except the ones that are covered with chalk
at the nearby school, where children play
and learn to read and write and say
the pledge of allegiance every day."
It's lame, but it's poetry. Whatever works, right?
(And if you've read this blog post all the way through, thank you! I know it's a bit disjointed - but I'll explain the reason in my NEXT post! Trust me - it'll all make total sense!)