This is one of those blogs that I have no idea what I want to write about. I know I’m past due in my posting, and I miss writing about this topic. But I’ve learned that as long as I ask the Big Guy for guidance every morning before I get out of bed, I can count on doing what I’m supposed to do, not that I always listen.
This morning is Sunday, and I planned to go to 8:00 Mass. I got up, showered, and got dressed, and my husband asked me if I’d changed my mind about going to church. I said no, “I’m leaving in a few minutes.” He looked at the clock. I looked at the clock. It was 8:15. Somehow, I got it in my head that Mass was at 9:00. So, did the Big Guy want me to stay home and write? I like to think so because I don’t feel one morsel of guilt. Progress!
I got the Mass time wrong because I was distracted. I was thinking about my crazy month of January. Last December, I had the chance to sign up for a conference in New York City. It was a last-minute thing. But I jump at any opportunity to go to my favorite city in the world. So I registered, knowing I was going to Texas less than two weeks later. While in the city, I walked downtown to the Tribeca neighborhood, passed my old stomping ground, through Greenwich Village, Washington Park, and back. The next day I walked to the West Side along Central Park to Columbia University and then east to the United Nations. After the conference was over, I took the train to see my niece and her husband in Boston rather than return home. Then I flew to Austin, where my sister, Karla, picked me up. We drove to New Braunfels for the night to research my next book. The next morning we went to La Grange to see her new home. It’s beautiful, by the way! After a wonderful evening at a local brewery, we rose early and were on the road to Houston, where we met the rest of the family.
I rounded up my trip by running the Houston Marathon. This was my 9th Houston Marathon, the most challenging race ever. At mile 19, this loud voice said, “What the hell are you doing? Are you insane? You’ve been flitting all over the damn country. You walked a trillion miles in Manhattan. You almost emptied your bank account. You’re on antibiotics for a bad infection due to a bad manicure. It’s hot and humid out here. This is your last Marathon! Do you hear me? Your last!” And then, this voice said something that really pissed me off. It said, “You remember that you turned seventy a few months ago?”
I finished the damn race. I got my damn medal and joined my family for Mexican food and drinks, as is our tradition. Unfortunately, I ate too much. I drank too much—Thank you, Karen, for the shot of tequila. And thank you, Becky, for the martini. I woke up with a hangover. I’m not blaming Karen or Becky. No one twisted my arm. The next day, I flew home.
Last week, I signed up for next year’s race.
Now, I ask you? Was I “guided” to do any of this? Truthfully, I don’t know the answer. But right now, I feel peaceful about sitting here at home and sharing this with you.
I welcome your opinion on my musing—divine guidance or stubborn insanity?