When I was a kid I delivered a newspaper. I can’t remember when I started or how long it lasted, I think until I was thirteen or fourteen. Each morning I got up, long before most of my classmates, I suppose, picked up the pile of newspapers that had been delivered outside my home earlier that night, and set off on the daily 60–90 minutes route, depending on how weighty the day’s publication was.
I remember how I hated it, back then. Or thought that I did. In hindsight it was more about lacking a certain perspective to be able to appreciate what it had to offer. The rest of my days were fairly packed with activities—sport, music, school of course—so there wasn’t much time to be on my own. The paper route offered an hour of daily alone-time, where I had nothing but my own thoughts to deal with. I’m almost tempted to believe it was the closest I ever got to meditating.
Earlier this year I had to spend a couple of weeks in Iceland, not far from where I used to live back in the days. One morning I walked the paper route. Took some photographs. Found out that I might want to chase it some. Might.