Have you ever noticed how we spend our lives counting numbers?  In a very real sense, that is exactly what we do.  (especially those of us who are afflicted with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder!)

This fact hit me hard this week when I saw the sheer terror in some people’s faces when the stock market dropped nine hundred points in three days. (I must admit, I did call my friend Peter on when the free fall took place.  Peter is my money manager. The conversation went something like this:

PETER: “Hello Jim, what’s up?”

ME: “Oh, nothing much.  Just a mild case of panic!”

PETER; (laughs) “Nothing to worry about, my friend. I’m looking at yours and Mary Ellen’s portfolio right now.  Down slightly, but nothing to get excited about.”

He then reminded me that, because I have a mixture of stocks, bonds and mutual funds, it is a well-balanced portfolio with some very aggressive, high earning items, and other more stable, slow growing stuff. )

 

Anyhow, the wide-spread and complete international panic that was caused by some numbers on a big, electronic board in New York City last week really made me sit up and take notice.

Back in 1929 when the same thing happened in New York City, people jumped out of windows.

All because of numbers.

We count how old we are, how many kids and grandkids we have, how many calories we take in, how far we walk, run, jog, ride bikes, and how many days a week we do it.

We diabetics count our carbs at every meal. 

When exercising, we count our heart rates.

I have a device that monitors my pulse when I exercise in order to keep my heart beat in the “productive zone”.

We wear machines that count our steps and our miles.

We count how much money we make, how much we have in the bank, how much we spend.

We count our net worth.

Watches on our wrists, clocks on the walls and on our cell phones tell us when to eat, sleep, go to work, even make love. (How many times a day do you look at the time, or hear it on the radio or the TV? Have you ever gone a full day – 24 hours – without knowing what time it is? It is REALLY disconcerting! See how controlling numbers are??!!)

We get concerned over the numbers of our blood pressure, our cholesterol, our lipids, our blood sugar, our weight.

How tall are you?

What’s your I.Q.?

What’s your gas mileage?

What’s the speed limit on this road?

How many miles to the next oil change?

What’s your phone number?

Zip Code?

S.S.#?

What’s the temperature outside today?

Relative humidity? (What IS relative humidity, anyway?)

Wind chill factor?

Today’s tanning index?

How many inches of rain did we get last month?

What the R rating for this Fiberglas insulation?

How many BTU’s does this woodstove or air conditioner put out? (Do you know what a BTU is? It’s a British Thermal Unit.  How in the hell do you measure a thermal????)

All numbers.

Hell, we even got into a HUGE national debate with people on both sides getting furious at the other side, over how to use numbers when we measure things!  Remember The Great Metric System Debates?

Some folks look up into the sky at night and, instead of seeing the wonders of the cosmos and staring at them in awe, they see numbers.

Numbers were created to help us keep track of our lives and our universe.  They are supposed to help us keep things in order. To measure things.  To help explain concepts that cannot be grasped otherwise.

They are supposed to helpful tools for humankind to use.  Now, it seems to me, they have grown in importance to the degree that they have become obsessions and hindrances to living.

 

***

 

Well, yesterday morning I woke up hours before sunrise, and the morning shows were filled with talking heads reporting how President Bush is working hard on this financial crisis of international proportions. (That’s kind of scary, isn’t it?  If I had a say in the matter, I think I’d tell ole “Dubya” to go out for a nice, long trail ride and come back in January when he is no longer President.)

The TV showed graphics of Wall Street’s recent plunge that looked like a blueprint for a one of those giant yellow slides at Six Flags.

I turned the set off, and put on my sneakers.  (They’re Sneakers. They’re not RUNNING SHOES  or CROSS-TRAINERS, or any other silly name that Nike likes to give their products made with Indonesian child slave labor so that you don’t feel bad spending $100 for a pair.) I then donned my sweats, got Dixie and her leash, and headed out the door.

The air was crisp as a bite from a Connecticut Macintosh apple, and it had just a bracing touch of fall coolness running through it. 

The full harvest moon hung on the perimeter of the horizon, like a huge, benevolent face smiling down and surveying the planet.

My horses came up to the pasture as Dixie and I ran by, nickering and nodding their heads.

The deer are out in the pasture too, one raised his head filled with velvety antlers as the dog and I went by.  The others continued grazing, unconcerned by the familiar sight. 

                A flock of turkeys accompanied the deer that morning. 

I glanced at them strutting and pecking, intermingling with the horses and the deer. They filled my heart and head with peace and security. 

                I fought the urge to count them

…and I breathed the air of a very lucky man who, at that one particular moment, was experiencing the real world once again.