Traveling mercies

This week I took a grueling 2-day trip to Tucson, Arizona: 6am out of Baltimore, then a redeye back the next day; I'm still recovering. On the way out, I finally read Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies. I'm a bit late to the Lamott party, but glad to be here. It's quite a book: a bit slow going at first, but on p.50 it all becomes worthwhile as she recalls her surrender to Jesus ("Fuck it. I quit. ...you can come in.") and the writing abruptly shifts to vibrant, poignant, and very funny essays for the rest of the book. I almost brought Grace (Eventually) with me as well (her latest); I could've read it on the way home. But they were both hardbound, and I was packing light; I thought I should limit my in-flight reading to half my total luggage weight.

With three young'uns at home, reading is becoming the best part of travel. It's nice to know that under the right circumstances (no network, no to-do list, no interruptions) I really can tear through a book at a McKnightly pace (books per week, instead of the other way around). When I'm not traveling, it's hard to follow the story arc of "Tuxedo Park" or the overall logic of "Velvet Elvis" when I'm only reading two pages per sit-down bathroom visit.

More broadly, I guess, living entirely by the dictates of duty or happenstance is a habit that's hard to break. It's convenient to blame it on my kids (and yes, they're part of the challenge); but if I'm honest I have to admit that intentional living is a skill I'm still trying to acquire.