broken TV

After work one day, I am angry.

It happens sometimes.

In the morning, I wake up feeling great. Rested. I have a nice cup of coffee before I leave the apartment. The day isn’t eventful, so I get some things done I have been putting off. Nothing at all bad happens during the workday. It was honestly rather pleasant.

However, on my way home I just feel irritated. As I ride the return train that skirts along the coast and stare out the window at the wide sea reflecting a cloudless afternoon sky, all I see are my past mistakes. I think of something stupid I said years ago which reminds me of something stupid I did a few days ago. I then get caught up in an ever-deepening narrative that I am just a stupid person.

It’s not true of course, that I’m stupid. And I don’t need to be so hard on myself.

But when I’m caught up in these torrents of not-so-good thoughts, I tend to get sucked in and think they are facts. The reality, however, is they are often just a piece of fiction I am repeating in my head. My mind sometimes works like a broken old TV that only has one channel. So, sometimes I end up watching the endless reruns of whatever garbage happens to be on.

When I get angry or stressed like this, I have slowly learned that I have a predictable response. This response has three parts:

First, I will go to a convenience store on the way home.

Second, I will buy a bunch of junk food.

Third, when I get home, I will try to forget my thoughts for a while by watching comedic British game shows on my laptop as I eat everything that I just bought in the first ten minutes of sitting down.

And, to its credit, this method does work.

Because when I finish my snacks (that are also my dinner), and I close my laptop for the night, I often find my thoughts and those feelings are a bit faded. A little lessened thanks to some light entertainment and sugar.

But it’s not the best answer.

Because my relief quickly fades without the enticing distraction. And it’s tainted with a gurgling stomach full of gummy coke bottles, potato chips, and soda. There is usually an aftertaste of disappointment and dissatisfaction.

Today though, as I get off the train, I decide to do something different.

I do not go to the convenience store. I go directly home.

I walk through the door of my apartment. I place my bag on the floor. I shed my work-clothes and throw them in my hamper. After changing into some shorts, a T-shirt, and a loose hoodie, I then head out the door.

Earphones in, I walk along and listen to music. It being spring, tulips and plum blossoms are blooming along some of the streets and small parks that abound in my town. Splashes of yellow, red, and bright pink. The sun is setting. The clear blue above is slowly being offset with a glowing orange sitting on the summits of surrounding mountains.

I already feel a bit better.

After a while I reach a wide park. I change my music to a podcast I like. I stretch. I walk over to the start of a one-kilometer path that winds in a circle through some hills. It slips under a tunnel of flowering trees whose petals are scattered over the pavement.

I start running. Lightly and slowly at first.

I breathe only through my nose following the advice a buddy once gave me if I am training for long distances.

I use my breathing to watch my speed. If I have to breathe through my mouth, I am going too fast. I try to keep my pace just on the cusp of too much.

I focus on the air coming in through my nose and out again. One long breath in. One long breath out. Over and over and over.

I don’t know how long I have been running for. I am just aiming for ten laps.

But as evening comes on, the air cools. This makes my nose run and it’s very annoying. At five laps, my right nostril is clogged. I don’t have any tissues and it’s tough to focus. The thought comes that maybe I should just call it a day and head home. But I don’t want to quit yet.

I stop and blow my nose lumberjack-style around the back half of the course among the trees where no one can see me. Snot flies out into the grass. I wipe the residue on my hoodie sleeve and continue.

I have to do this a few more times as I run. On the seventh lap. The eighth lap.

I’m sweating. I have rolled up my booger covered sleeves to cool off a little.

I finish my ninth time around the course. By now the sun is well below the mountains with a black night and bright moon pressing down on everything.

I feel like it might be too dark to keep running around the track. There are no lights for a good length of the course that passes through the wooded hills, and I am worried about not being able to see the uneven pavement as I run.

But I’ve come this far. It’s only one more lap.

I head into the trees again for what will be my last loop around. There is very little light under the canopy of leaves. But ahead there is a clearing. I have passed this clearing nine times before, but as I arrive this time it is different.

I pause and take out my earphones. Quiet.

The clearing is on the side of a hill. Down the slope stretches tall grass leading to a long road that zig-zags and splits into different neighbourhoods along the sea-facing mountains. Tall white-glowing streetlamps poke out among the avenues and the houses that are scattered between the hills and the water.

Underneath a dark heavy sky propped up by the strength of little silver lights, the sprawling forests that extend beyond the town have turned from green to a deep navy. The moon looks down on it all.

Above me there are things fluttering about in the night. Maybe they are birds. Maybe bats. But it is too dark to tell. They are playing and chasing each other. I choose to think they’re bats. Bats are more interesting.

Standing on the side of the hill looking out over the view, I find that there is a lot going on. So many subtle things occurring all at once. In my tired body. In the moving world.

I notice that by becoming more aware of them my gaze has turned away from the broken TV in my head. Though the bad reruns are still airing, and the TV is still on, it feels like I decided to go and sit outside on my porch instead of remaining on my couch. I can still hear the TV alive and humming inside, but I realize that I don't need to pay attention to it right now.

There are other things happening. More important things.

One long breath in. One long breath out.

I find there is no longer a need to be angry.