6 Mailboxes

Walking helps me write.

Writing helps me understand.

I have never walked the 500 mile Camino de Santiago in Spain like so many writers seeking to find themselves do.

Nor, have I ever walked the 1,560 mile Pacific Coast Trail like Cheryl Stayed did when she wrote “Wild.”

But the other day I did walk 6 mailboxes.

Me on foot, pushing Jess in her wheelchair.

It was the first time in seven years, other than going to or from a hospital, that she has been part of the outside world.

The first time that she has felt the warmth of the sun.

Or the coolness of a breeze.

Or heard a bird sing, or a plane fly by.

Many people go on thousand mile excursions to become one with the universe and to find themselves.

I only needed to walk 6 mailboxes in my own neighborhood.

Granted it took me 7 years and every ounce of energy I could muster up to accomplish this.

6 mailboxes don’t seem like a journey to most.

Believe me, it is the furthest I have ever traveled in my life.

And it was more grueling and required more endurance than if I ran a triathlon, every day, for each and every day of the last 7 years.

No, I didn’t find the meaning to life on the Camino de Santiago, or the Pacific Coast Trail, like most others do.

I found it on Victoria Lane.

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