I walk a lot. Twenty-five minutes to work in the morning, then another twenty-five home, then hither and yon and yon again whererever I need to go (I never learned how to drive, okay?).
And if walking's good for anything (besides keeping what's left of my girlish figure intact), it's ruminating on world issues and self-betterment. Tonight, walking home, I had such plans! Beer bread! Salad! Poems to write! Courses to plan! Laundry to do! Blog posts! Chores!
But, oh, home! Home is where my friends are, and wine, and snuggly dogs and rotten cats. How can I write when there's tea to be made? How can I work when there's socks and dogs and minestrone?