Some prisoners at Taft Camp don’t serve time as easily as I do. I feel sorry for Richard, an older man who serves a seven-year sentence. He’s been in this camp for about one year, and it looks as if he’s aged 10 years. He stoops when he walks, he leaves his hair and face disheveled, he sleeps in the same clothes that he wears all day.
I know that prison separates us from family, career, and community, but we have a responsibility to use our time wisely. It’s a sin to wither away. I’ve suggested to Richard that he should set goals, any kind of goals. He could set a reading goal, a walking goal, a hobby craft goal. Action would serve him better than vegetating on his rack waiting for prison reform.
My term in prison has passed much quicker than it should have, and I’m convinced the reason is that I’ve always worked toward goals that I set. It’s not natural for a man to wait for outside forces to change his life. Even in prison, we have the power to choose how we will use our energy, and although restrictions limit us, if we don’t set industrious schedules, our minds, bodies, and spirits atrophy. I try to inspire my fellow prisoners with my busy work schedule. But with Richard, I don’t feel as though I’m succeeding.
This morning I began writing at 1:49. I continue working through chapter eleven. I wrote through page 502. I ran 10 miles in the morning, bringing my tally to 2,377 miles over the past 268 days without a single day of rest.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
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