I began by day last Wednesday with my leggings on backwards.

I moved through most of my morning routine registering something was amiss but not able to pinpoint exactly what until one last pitstop in the bathroom before heading to work sorted it out. I was only mildly concerned about the morning commute. Even so, I double-checked side and rearview mirrors, backed down the driveway a bit more carefully than usual and eighteen miles later, pulled into the parking lot intact and smiling wryly. Humans. Aren’t we funny? No raccoon ever put its bandit mask on upside down before tackling its furry to-do list for the day.

Looking back on that morning moment, I wondered what else had captured my attention so fully that my own physical architecture didn’t cry out for a serious recalibration of the clothes it was wearing. I’m not the flighty type; there are certain steps to my morning agenda that happen in precise order (out of necessity) and keep me moving forward. By contrast, Patrick’s “out the door” practice is a masterful and thoroughly entertaining example of organized chaos held together by a consistent element of surprise. He’s Dagwood Bumpstead and a German train schedule combined. I leave him to it, standing at a safe distance, leaning in only for the farewell morning kiss before he takes all that energy and puts it behind the wheel. Add kittens begging for breakfast to the mix, turn up the sound and enjoy (and you wonder why I enjoy the solitude of my morning walks so much…).

The human brain is a marvelous tool and wonder. Though researchers differ on the precise amount, they say we are on the receiving end of more than 34 gigabytes of information each day, give or take a few bytes. This nonstop train of data barrels at us continuously until we get some sleep and then it slows a bit, but don’t we have weird dreams some nights? Leftovers, no doubt, from the info buffet where we pulled up a chair and parked for a good seven to twelve hours that bubble up into some sort of surreal cranial soup involving the face of the person we saw in line at the bank singing the wrong lyrics to “Purple Haze”, kittens mewling at his feed for food (wait—that last part might be real). There’s not enough space nor time here to do this subject justice so I shall encourage you to check out the research on your own. And until a team of scientists takes a much deeper look into my own cerebral functionality, I’m pretty much on my own to figure it out. All I know is that I face each day with endless choices and the wistful regret that I can’t select them all. Is that an aging thing, where I watch the pile of birthdays behind me grow larger and the potential ones on the horizon thin out like the last hairs on a balding head? Perhaps, and most days I can accept that. But I’m also driven by an insatiable curiosity that wants to know, to learn, to experience what crosses my life’s path. It’s as exhilarating as it is disappointing, and walking that line with grace requires effort.

Speaking of walking, I took this data overload research out to the fields this morning and wondered what would happen to my brain’s processing if I closed my eyes for a short section of the path that leads to the northern mouth of the meadow, cutting off the pipeline of visual information that surrounds me with its heartbreaking beauty every time I immerse myself in it. The ground was rock-hard, knotted with molehills and dotted with those ankle-turning black walnuts from a generous stand of trees nearby; I knew what the risks were as I tightened my grip on the two walking sticks I use. From the main diagonal path that connects the fields to that northern opening to the meadow, I slowed my steps and with eyes closed, imagined the place where I make that gentle right turn, remembering the three smaller walnut saplings that frame the entrance. I cleared them with a few inches to spare, not having to use my sticks as extended arms to feel my way through to the place where the path straightened and then hugs the curve of creek too closely for closed-eye walking experiments (I’m curious but not foolish).

I doubt my other senses stepped up to the plate with gusto during those ninety seconds, but it was an eye-opening realization that I can slow down the steady flow of information and focus a bit more closely on what’s in front of me. Sure, the stuff that hollers the loudest with its vivid colors and urgency will always get my attention in a head-snap sort of way, but don’t I control my scrolling time? Aren’t I in charge of what I read, what I listen to, what I watch on Netflix? Life is the Grand Distraction to end all and I’m in it for the long haul (I hope, and so far, so good). Whatever I miss, someone else will pick up and play with, I’m sure.

As long as my pants are on the right way ‘round, I’ll be fine.