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My mind is a pretty weird place to hang out. In the laneway this morning I kicked a pebble, which I love to do. Don't you? Don't you like to see how long you can follow a stone—or an acorn—that way? First you kick (hoping it will go straight). Then you walk (not breaking stride, of course) to where the stone landed (and to play with the strictest of rules, you have to keep walking straight along your path; no deviations to chase the pebble). Then you kick it again. And again.
As I kicked this morning, I got a vision of kicking a river stone—say, about as big as a tennis ball. It made my toes hurt just to think about it. And then I began to imagine the maximum size you could kick without breaking a toe. I thought that if you wore steel-toed work boots you could increase the size of the stone until you could kick a stone the size of a softball. Could you kick a stone the size of a soccer ball? No, not even with steel-toed boots. Could you do a stone-kick wearing sandals or open-toed pumps? That would be courting disaster. I could make a spread-sheet, maybe, outlining shoe types and optimal and maximum stone sizes. Maybe this is what I'll do. This will be a novel way to waste the rest of my life!
When I offer tours of the inner workings of my mind, I'll play docent. Keep your eyes peeled for the brochure. I'll send it out just as soon as I get organized . . .
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