I went out to Yankee today. As usual I had alot on my mind. Not only did I take a fall on a new trail on Friday that wiped out my confidence, I had some personal stuff that seemed to reflect the same state of mind. It really does seem like whatever happens on the trail permeates my life on every level.
So I hit a familiar trail with a heavy heart. I know it like the back of my hand. I've got the same line I pick every time. This brings some comfort but I don't trust it. I know all to well how the familiar can change in the blink of an eye. Sometimes what looks like hard pack with leaves on top, is really mud underneath. It's the kind of mud that takes you down in a flash and grinds itself into your chamois. It's not comfortable riding that way, trust me. So I decided to pay extra close attention to the terrain as I rode keeping in mind that things aren't always what they seem to be. This is particularly important if I've gone down on the last ride. Some times taking a digger can cause me to believe things that aren't necessarily true about myself, the people I love and the world around me. As I started out, this thought led to another, which led to another, which led to another, and so the wheel keeps turning....
I was pedaling along trying to concentrate on keeping myself safe. I started thinking of the various ways we do that on a mountain bike. I figure the less baggage the safer you are. I ride with a water bottle, a helmet, gloves, and more recently I have adopted the use of riding glasses. I actually got them last season. Thomas had a pair that he wanted to unload that didn't fit his face. The price was right so I snagged them up. They happen to be red, just like the jersey I won at the B4 Bash. Red, just like the bike that fell into my lap. I started wearing them in preparation for Iceman. I hated them then, and I still do. But, I wear them. I have this thing about feeling restricted. I have this thing about my face being touched. This combination makes it particularly hard to wear my regular glasses, let alone the ones I ride with. This lack of willingness to be restricted is the same reason I don't us a camel back. I just can't stand the way it feels.
As I'm riding along with my various forms of protection, A memory from my child hood re-surfaces. It is one that caused me to believe something about myself until about 5 yrs ago, that just wasn't true. It goes like this.
Ever since I can remember being able to walk and talk, I've coped with stress by rocking back and forth. During extreme amounts of stress I would moan or chant while doing this to block out the noise in my head, or the noise of the trauma that would be ensuing in the room at the time. I would also engage in this behavior when I was waiting for the "other shoe to drop" or to ward off this feeling that I can't to this day describe properly.
One night, my older sister was watching us. I guess when I was really young I called her mom. She was our primary caretaker until she got smart and left when she turned 16. I always got afraid when it got dark out, especially if my parents weren't home. I sat on the couch in the living room, shut my eyes as tight as I could, and commenced to doing what I did best back then. The stronger this feeling of impending doom got the faster and harder I rocked. The moaning increased in decibels. I wanted to get up and shut the curtains, because I had that creepy feeling that a was being watched. Someone might see what I was doing, and like my mom said, they would think I was retarded. This behavior would continue until the intensity would just get so great that I would have to peak and see if any one was there. The first two times this happened there was nothing there. By the third time I opened my eyes the sensation was so strong, that every hair on my body was standing on end before I opened them. I will never forget the image that presented on the other side of the window pane. It was a face that was clearly human, but it looked a bit like Jack Nicholson from "The Shining". When I first opened my mouth nothing would come out. I'm sure my face was probably contorted in a mirror reflection of whoever was on the other side of the glass. My throat was so tight I was afraid I would suffocate. Finally the scream escaped from deep inside my lungs. My sister came running out of the bedroom. All I could do was point and scream. She ran out the front door to see if anyone was there. She came back in the house and uttered these words that would shape my version of reality for the rest of my life. "There was nothing there." However, to calm me down she called the police. They brought the k-9 unit, which didn't seem to be impressed by anything as far as a dogs nose is concerned. They assured me there was nothing to worry about. But I saw something. Didn't I?
I was about 7 yrs old when that happened. Even at seven I knew you weren't supposed to see things that aren't there, but unfortunately for me, I just had. I decided at that point that there was really something wrong with me. Only crazy people see things. Therefore that meant I was crazy. Right? Fast forward to about 5 years ago. I was living on the west side of G-Rap, highly strung out on stress, living on the edge of the gates of Hell near 11th and Alpine. It was a new apartment for me and there were no blinds on the windows yet. This creeped me out, so I did what I do when I freak. I shut off all the lights so nobody could see in, and I sat on the couch rocking back and forth. From where I was sitting I could see the porch of the house next door. There was a man standing just outside my window smoking a cigarette. Peering out that dirty window triggered the memory of that night when I was seven. It came back with such clarity, it was as if it happened all over again. I immediately picked up the phone and called my sister. I asked her if she remembered that night. Of course she did. I asked her if she really didn't see anything when my screams prompted her out the front door. Of course she had. That is why she called the police. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I didn't want to scare you."
As I was riding yesterday my glasses were getting the salty speckles caused by sweat and tears. It was getting difficult to see. It made me think about how sometimes what is meant to protect can actually be detrimental to one's well being on pretty much any level. Take these riding glasses for instance. They work really well at protecting my eyes from debri. They shield the wind somewhat so my eyes don't dry out and get permanently stuck open. They also shade them from the sun. These are all good features and great reasons to use them. However, when what is meant to be used to protect, grossly effects perception, things can get very dangerous out there. The grime that builds up becomes like layered veils that blind the eye to the truth, instead of helping it to see. Sometimes a lack of protection is essential to see the truth. The truth may be scarey, or unfavorable, but it is much easier to manuever through if you can see it.
I just hope someday, the truth will bring me to a place where it is okay for someone to touch my face.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
I won't make that mistake again.
This is the thing about suffering. It teaches you to not make the same mistake twice. I fell really hard on an innocent looking log pile. Sometimes it's better to just stay down when you fall. I won't be trying that one again.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Gift of Suffering
There you have it. I am officially the last one who is still single out of my little tribe. The wedding went off as planned and in spite of my insecurities of being the last one left, I really am happy for my friend. I know he loves his new wife. I lost it when he reached up and brushed the tears off her cheeks. I am so tired of crying!
The next day was kind of special because a bunch of us got to ride Owassipe. This is my favorite trail, but it is no longer open to the public. While I was waiting for people to finish getting ready I joined the school of sharks that were swirling about. As I am swirling I decide I should try to pop up onto the curb. Why I always have an urge to do this kind of stuff on concrete, I cannot explain, but I do, so it usually winds up a bit bloody. I'm okay with this. Staying true to form, most of my injuries happen pre-ride. I'll blame this one on an assumption I made about Jack, as well as not knowing my own strength.
It was just a 4 or 5 inch curb. I wasn't trying to hop it. I was just trying to gingerly get up on it. I approached it very slowly and lifted the front end up onto the curb. Things felt really good and there was no cause for alarm. That is until evidently the combination of Jack's feather weight build and my strength were a bit much. I realized this as I lifted up his ass, and it went over my head. Of all the bikers swarming around that day, not one saw it. Slow Poke came around his van having been alerted by the sound of metal on concrete. It was sheer grace in motion and he missed it. Lucky for me, because it appears this guy is in the habit of recording these biking type excursions. Beautiful. As I am laying there with my feet still clipped in, half on my side, with my butt popped up in the air, I ask him if he saw it. “Unfortunately not!" It's always good to know that people are looking out for your best interest. He did redeem himself by giving me a band aide to cover the tip of my middle finger that got rubbed off through my full fingered gloves. Good thing I got those.
As I am bandaging myself up he and my new friend Becky (Who is new to mountain biking, I mean super new. This was her first time!) strike up a conversation about safety, all the bad things that could happen, and not wanting to crash. Here I stand bleeding before them, trying to grasp what they are really saying, having just done a cartwheel on my bike. They say things like "I don't want to break anything" or "I am to old too go hurting myself". Listening to them talk about their fears, I blurted out "I was doing this stuff when I was a kid. Going down is part of it. I have accepted that." Then I pulled my gloves back over my bloody finger, thanked God for the pain, gingerly walked Jack up that curb again, (successfully) hopped back down and said, "Let’s go see if we can break something!" Becky said something about a bad influence. I'm not sure who she was talking about.
Now, I don't like getting hurt anymore than the next person. I try to be careful and ride smart, but things happen out there. I broke some ribs last year on a night ride. I endo'd so hard that I blew out the bottom of my shoe, but that's another story. I don't like having to take breaks either. I raced Pando with broken ribs. I could still feel them at Iceman. On Sunday as we headed for the single track I understood on a different level what they were talking about. They are talking about not being willing to suffer. They were talking about the aftermath of falling, the potential injury and the wounded pride, not the fall itself. As I stood there this silly little image of a mangled cart with a horse sniffing around behind it flashed in my mind. Isn't this essentially what we are doing when we live in fear? I think that the cart is less likely to crash if you stay in front of it.
I just remember how sick and stagnate I was when I was afraid to even try anything. I liken fear to being taken prisoner. A favorite quote of mine is taken from a book called "Mans Search for Meaning" by Viktor E. Frankl. He was a psychiatrist who was taken prisoner during the Holocaust. It goes like this: "The prisoners were only average men, but some at least, by choosing to be "worthy of their suffering" proved man's capacity to rise above his outward fate." These days I just accept that I am going to suffer. I've been through some senseless experiences in my day. I have suffered much at the hands of others, and even more at my own. I have an overwhelming desire for it to mean something and not go to waste. So guess what? That requires being willing to fall, which means I will suffer some more. I am going to get hurt, but it sure beats the pain of numbness. It beats the torment of not trying, and it sure as hell beats lying awake at night constantly wondering how things "might" have been, if I had only tried.
I am riding a new trail today. I am pretty sure I am going down. I am pretty sure I'll fall hard. I'm thanking God in advance for the pain. I went for years trying to numb out emotionally. For the most part I succeeded. It's kind of ironic that now that my body is slowly going numb, my heart is coming alive and right now at this very moment, I know I don't truly have to fear the fall. It's not a free fall into nothingness. Like the hand of God, the earth will be there to break it. It seems as though the aftermath of a fall, really just makes us more acutely aware of what was there all along. I mean think of it this way. If I hadn't of made the mistake of kicking Jack too hard in the ass, I might not have found out that if I just guide his head a little bit, the rest of him will follow suit. I wouldn't have got to feel something other than numbness in this left middle finger of mine. Although I can’t feel it so well, it’s been there all along. It actually hurt. Pain can be a good thing.
In response to one of my more Emo post, Puppy sent some kind words to me. Another favorite quote to add to my list goes something like this: "There is nothing I can say so let’s talk about bike parts. Do you know why Shimano brake levers rock? Because they are made out of forged aluminum. Shimano has these amazing 6000 lb presses that squish aluminum to form a brake lever. Somehow this forging makes the aluminum much stronger; therefore they can make the levers thinner and lighter and still they are amazingly strong. There are no better levers out there. Sure, CNCed levers look sexy but they are not as good as Shimano's. I imagine the levers themselves don't like being forged. It must hurt like hell during this process. But forging makes them better off in the long run. And the person who gets them is better off too."
What a gift. Thank you. I pray someday I'll be worthy of it.
The next day was kind of special because a bunch of us got to ride Owassipe. This is my favorite trail, but it is no longer open to the public. While I was waiting for people to finish getting ready I joined the school of sharks that were swirling about. As I am swirling I decide I should try to pop up onto the curb. Why I always have an urge to do this kind of stuff on concrete, I cannot explain, but I do, so it usually winds up a bit bloody. I'm okay with this. Staying true to form, most of my injuries happen pre-ride. I'll blame this one on an assumption I made about Jack, as well as not knowing my own strength.
It was just a 4 or 5 inch curb. I wasn't trying to hop it. I was just trying to gingerly get up on it. I approached it very slowly and lifted the front end up onto the curb. Things felt really good and there was no cause for alarm. That is until evidently the combination of Jack's feather weight build and my strength were a bit much. I realized this as I lifted up his ass, and it went over my head. Of all the bikers swarming around that day, not one saw it. Slow Poke came around his van having been alerted by the sound of metal on concrete. It was sheer grace in motion and he missed it. Lucky for me, because it appears this guy is in the habit of recording these biking type excursions. Beautiful. As I am laying there with my feet still clipped in, half on my side, with my butt popped up in the air, I ask him if he saw it. “Unfortunately not!" It's always good to know that people are looking out for your best interest. He did redeem himself by giving me a band aide to cover the tip of my middle finger that got rubbed off through my full fingered gloves. Good thing I got those.
As I am bandaging myself up he and my new friend Becky (Who is new to mountain biking, I mean super new. This was her first time!) strike up a conversation about safety, all the bad things that could happen, and not wanting to crash. Here I stand bleeding before them, trying to grasp what they are really saying, having just done a cartwheel on my bike. They say things like "I don't want to break anything" or "I am to old too go hurting myself". Listening to them talk about their fears, I blurted out "I was doing this stuff when I was a kid. Going down is part of it. I have accepted that." Then I pulled my gloves back over my bloody finger, thanked God for the pain, gingerly walked Jack up that curb again, (successfully) hopped back down and said, "Let’s go see if we can break something!" Becky said something about a bad influence. I'm not sure who she was talking about.
Now, I don't like getting hurt anymore than the next person. I try to be careful and ride smart, but things happen out there. I broke some ribs last year on a night ride. I endo'd so hard that I blew out the bottom of my shoe, but that's another story. I don't like having to take breaks either. I raced Pando with broken ribs. I could still feel them at Iceman. On Sunday as we headed for the single track I understood on a different level what they were talking about. They are talking about not being willing to suffer. They were talking about the aftermath of falling, the potential injury and the wounded pride, not the fall itself. As I stood there this silly little image of a mangled cart with a horse sniffing around behind it flashed in my mind. Isn't this essentially what we are doing when we live in fear? I think that the cart is less likely to crash if you stay in front of it.
I just remember how sick and stagnate I was when I was afraid to even try anything. I liken fear to being taken prisoner. A favorite quote of mine is taken from a book called "Mans Search for Meaning" by Viktor E. Frankl. He was a psychiatrist who was taken prisoner during the Holocaust. It goes like this: "The prisoners were only average men, but some at least, by choosing to be "worthy of their suffering" proved man's capacity to rise above his outward fate." These days I just accept that I am going to suffer. I've been through some senseless experiences in my day. I have suffered much at the hands of others, and even more at my own. I have an overwhelming desire for it to mean something and not go to waste. So guess what? That requires being willing to fall, which means I will suffer some more. I am going to get hurt, but it sure beats the pain of numbness. It beats the torment of not trying, and it sure as hell beats lying awake at night constantly wondering how things "might" have been, if I had only tried.
I am riding a new trail today. I am pretty sure I am going down. I am pretty sure I'll fall hard. I'm thanking God in advance for the pain. I went for years trying to numb out emotionally. For the most part I succeeded. It's kind of ironic that now that my body is slowly going numb, my heart is coming alive and right now at this very moment, I know I don't truly have to fear the fall. It's not a free fall into nothingness. Like the hand of God, the earth will be there to break it. It seems as though the aftermath of a fall, really just makes us more acutely aware of what was there all along. I mean think of it this way. If I hadn't of made the mistake of kicking Jack too hard in the ass, I might not have found out that if I just guide his head a little bit, the rest of him will follow suit. I wouldn't have got to feel something other than numbness in this left middle finger of mine. Although I can’t feel it so well, it’s been there all along. It actually hurt. Pain can be a good thing.
In response to one of my more Emo post, Puppy sent some kind words to me. Another favorite quote to add to my list goes something like this: "There is nothing I can say so let’s talk about bike parts. Do you know why Shimano brake levers rock? Because they are made out of forged aluminum. Shimano has these amazing 6000 lb presses that squish aluminum to form a brake lever. Somehow this forging makes the aluminum much stronger; therefore they can make the levers thinner and lighter and still they are amazingly strong. There are no better levers out there. Sure, CNCed levers look sexy but they are not as good as Shimano's. I imagine the levers themselves don't like being forged. It must hurt like hell during this process. But forging makes them better off in the long run. And the person who gets them is better off too."
What a gift. Thank you. I pray someday I'll be worthy of it.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Snags
Friday was my first day of spring break. In preparation for my best friend's wedding I decided to totally ditch my list of things to do, like buy something suitable to wear other than Lycra, and go ride Yankee instead. I was really struggling because both of my closest friends are now in serious relationships, and I am...still single.
I clipped in and started off pedaling as fast as I could. Something happens after I settle into a ride that is hard to describe. I suppose it is a bit like meditation. It's like doorways open for thoughts to flow in and out of simultaneously. Its almost as if they have a life of their own, demanding that I look. Just when I think I am going to escape something, its placed in front of me again. New perceptions on the same old stuff reveal themselves. I suppose it's the closest I come to clearing my mind.
As I start to sweat I start to think about relationships in general. Particularly mine. This always causes me to think about God because I tend to think that the state of my relationships is a reflection of my relationship with him. The metaphors come to life as my heart pounds in my chest on that first climb. The trail is the relationship. The bike is Christ and I am the idiot crucifying him out there on the trail. I don't mean to really. I am just trying to pick a line; I want to find that flow in life I so desperately need.
Here's the deal. Like so many things in life I've wasted much time blaming someone else for my stuff. When I first started riding I blamed the trail. Then I blamed the bike, but I never truly blamed my self other than to admit that I pretty much sucked all the way around. As you can imagine that state of mind is equivalent to riding in 6 inches of snow on top of ice with no studs or winter gear. It's futility at its finest. So as Jack and I are getting to know each other I find myself paying more attention to the trail. Because this bike has a rigid fork, I have too. This causes me to actually have to loosen up my grip and trust my bike more. If I don't I'll get beat to death. As I am riding I am over come with the thought that if I can just learn to trust, maybe life will be okay.
There are certain areas of the trail that are particularly difficult for me. One is that matted hill. I didn't make it all the way up it on my geared bike until the middle of last season. These first few attempts on the SS proved very frustrating as well. I thought about that hill all through the ride. I thought about what it was going to take to make it. I didn't know what I could possibly do differently to get me up. I was so focused on what to do, that the hill presented way to soon and I wasn't prepared. I stalled half way. I un-clipped. I looked down the hill. I looked up the hill. I considered settling. I've done this most of my life trying to find something to satisfy me. It's never worked. This occurs to me as I am panting in the middle of the hill. I go back down hill to try again. I let my heart rate drop to 160 and make my approach with as much speed as I can. I get to that half way point and say good bye to it, and hello to a whole new realm of heart staggering, mind numbing ecstasy. At the top I can hear my shout echo off the trees, my sole witnesses. I do not stop. I pedal in the satisfaction of not having settled.
There is one more hill out there that is an irritation. It's just after the 10 mile mark. It's not exceptionally steep but it's rooty and loose. I can do it no problem on gears. Jack is another story. My heart is still racing from the matted hill as I attack this one. My pedal catches a root. I consider going back down and trying again, but walk the rest of the way instead. I know it will still be there the next time around. I know I may get snagged up again. I am OK with this. I will learn how to pick my line up this hill. I've been up it before just never quite like this. Anything is possible, even a re-route, given the miserable state this hill is in.
I'll keep climbing it till something happens.
By the time I get back to my car I'm okay again with being single. From this vantage point I am acutely aware of what is going to snag me up. I also know the hill can be climbed, and in the end I don't have to settle for anything less than the top. I can trust this.
There is something to be said for that kind of satisfaction.
I clipped in and started off pedaling as fast as I could. Something happens after I settle into a ride that is hard to describe. I suppose it is a bit like meditation. It's like doorways open for thoughts to flow in and out of simultaneously. Its almost as if they have a life of their own, demanding that I look. Just when I think I am going to escape something, its placed in front of me again. New perceptions on the same old stuff reveal themselves. I suppose it's the closest I come to clearing my mind.
As I start to sweat I start to think about relationships in general. Particularly mine. This always causes me to think about God because I tend to think that the state of my relationships is a reflection of my relationship with him. The metaphors come to life as my heart pounds in my chest on that first climb. The trail is the relationship. The bike is Christ and I am the idiot crucifying him out there on the trail. I don't mean to really. I am just trying to pick a line; I want to find that flow in life I so desperately need.
Here's the deal. Like so many things in life I've wasted much time blaming someone else for my stuff. When I first started riding I blamed the trail. Then I blamed the bike, but I never truly blamed my self other than to admit that I pretty much sucked all the way around. As you can imagine that state of mind is equivalent to riding in 6 inches of snow on top of ice with no studs or winter gear. It's futility at its finest. So as Jack and I are getting to know each other I find myself paying more attention to the trail. Because this bike has a rigid fork, I have too. This causes me to actually have to loosen up my grip and trust my bike more. If I don't I'll get beat to death. As I am riding I am over come with the thought that if I can just learn to trust, maybe life will be okay.
There are certain areas of the trail that are particularly difficult for me. One is that matted hill. I didn't make it all the way up it on my geared bike until the middle of last season. These first few attempts on the SS proved very frustrating as well. I thought about that hill all through the ride. I thought about what it was going to take to make it. I didn't know what I could possibly do differently to get me up. I was so focused on what to do, that the hill presented way to soon and I wasn't prepared. I stalled half way. I un-clipped. I looked down the hill. I looked up the hill. I considered settling. I've done this most of my life trying to find something to satisfy me. It's never worked. This occurs to me as I am panting in the middle of the hill. I go back down hill to try again. I let my heart rate drop to 160 and make my approach with as much speed as I can. I get to that half way point and say good bye to it, and hello to a whole new realm of heart staggering, mind numbing ecstasy. At the top I can hear my shout echo off the trees, my sole witnesses. I do not stop. I pedal in the satisfaction of not having settled.
There is one more hill out there that is an irritation. It's just after the 10 mile mark. It's not exceptionally steep but it's rooty and loose. I can do it no problem on gears. Jack is another story. My heart is still racing from the matted hill as I attack this one. My pedal catches a root. I consider going back down and trying again, but walk the rest of the way instead. I know it will still be there the next time around. I know I may get snagged up again. I am OK with this. I will learn how to pick my line up this hill. I've been up it before just never quite like this. Anything is possible, even a re-route, given the miserable state this hill is in.
I'll keep climbing it till something happens.
By the time I get back to my car I'm okay again with being single. From this vantage point I am acutely aware of what is going to snag me up. I also know the hill can be climbed, and in the end I don't have to settle for anything less than the top. I can trust this.
There is something to be said for that kind of satisfaction.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Key
I didn't get to ride today. Eric called as soon as I got home from school. He needed to come pick up the mural that my daughter painted for the ceremony. I sat here staring at my bike trying not to touch it. By the time Eric rang the door bell I was putting on my Sidi's. I thought I would just go spin around the lot for a minute while he used the bathroom. I grabbed Jack by the shorts hairs and we were gone. A few minutes later Eric comes outside. I'm hopping and spinning around and chit chatting when I realize I don't have a key to get back in the apartment.
Me: " Did you grab the keyes?"
Him: " No was I supposed too?"
Me: "We have on the same shirt!"
And we laughed. This is the thing about us. We can laugh at ourselves. We can laugh at each other. We can laugh at the world together, and it is hilarious. I tell him to start pushing buttons to see if someone is home. I continue to ride around the parking lot. He stands there. He tells me the buttons are on my building so I should be the one pushing them, but what he doesn't understand is that I am clipped in. I am connected and I don't want that to change. I'm feeling it even in the parking lot. Then we both get distracted and we start talking about my bike and how cool it is and how I don't ever want to go back to gears and I'm telling him about the last 3 rides at Yankee and how he should a been there and "Do you realize just how light my bike is?" and I unclip and hand it to him and he is marveling about Jack and I realize something as he is standing there with my bike in his hands. My best friend, who re-introduced me to the love of my life, (the love that has saved me from the grips of my own anguish)is getting married tomorrow.
The past fourteen years kinda play out in my mind, he is standing there oblivious to what is going on. Mystery Science theatre, Perkins and the Sunset Machine, Driving around to Coolio in the Skylark because we didn't know what else to do. Then at staggered intervals Love would strike one of the four of us, and we would disappear for a bit from each others lives, to reconvene for the important stuff like divorces and children dying, and just being present when life happens to each other.
I'm thinking about all this as we jump in the truck to go to the rental office to get a key. I notice his tux. I cannot believe Deb is letting him wear an ivory tux. I say something about it and we laugh some more. Then we bust out singing like we often do. We are especially prone to do this while riding. Stupid silly little ditty's. We are gabbing about who all is coming on Saturday to ride Owassipe. In the midst of all this I tell him that I have missed him. He pretends like he doesn't hear it,(like he does when I tell him that I love him) and we start talking about why no one would answer the buzzer for us. We surmise that it is because we are both wearing The Ride of Silence t-shirts, and people were in fear that we were like the Jehovah's Witnesses for the Church of the Rolling Wheel. We laugh some more. We get back to the apartment and he loads up the picture. It's time for him to go. As he drives away I say goodbye to the days that we would fly by the seat of our pants together to whatever trail we felt like riding whenever we we felt like doing it. I say good bye to the idea that we were just going to ride off into the single hood sunset together. It was a bad deal anyway. We thought about getting shirts made that said "He is my Brother!" or "I am not with Her!" He's getting married instead.
Jack is waiting when I come back in. "It's just me and you now Baby."
I talk to my bike. Sweet. I've lost my mind.
Me: " Did you grab the keyes?"
Him: " No was I supposed too?"
Me: "We have on the same shirt!"
And we laughed. This is the thing about us. We can laugh at ourselves. We can laugh at each other. We can laugh at the world together, and it is hilarious. I tell him to start pushing buttons to see if someone is home. I continue to ride around the parking lot. He stands there. He tells me the buttons are on my building so I should be the one pushing them, but what he doesn't understand is that I am clipped in. I am connected and I don't want that to change. I'm feeling it even in the parking lot. Then we both get distracted and we start talking about my bike and how cool it is and how I don't ever want to go back to gears and I'm telling him about the last 3 rides at Yankee and how he should a been there and "Do you realize just how light my bike is?" and I unclip and hand it to him and he is marveling about Jack and I realize something as he is standing there with my bike in his hands. My best friend, who re-introduced me to the love of my life, (the love that has saved me from the grips of my own anguish)is getting married tomorrow.
The past fourteen years kinda play out in my mind, he is standing there oblivious to what is going on. Mystery Science theatre, Perkins and the Sunset Machine, Driving around to Coolio in the Skylark because we didn't know what else to do. Then at staggered intervals Love would strike one of the four of us, and we would disappear for a bit from each others lives, to reconvene for the important stuff like divorces and children dying, and just being present when life happens to each other.
I'm thinking about all this as we jump in the truck to go to the rental office to get a key. I notice his tux. I cannot believe Deb is letting him wear an ivory tux. I say something about it and we laugh some more. Then we bust out singing like we often do. We are especially prone to do this while riding. Stupid silly little ditty's. We are gabbing about who all is coming on Saturday to ride Owassipe. In the midst of all this I tell him that I have missed him. He pretends like he doesn't hear it,(like he does when I tell him that I love him) and we start talking about why no one would answer the buzzer for us. We surmise that it is because we are both wearing The Ride of Silence t-shirts, and people were in fear that we were like the Jehovah's Witnesses for the Church of the Rolling Wheel. We laugh some more. We get back to the apartment and he loads up the picture. It's time for him to go. As he drives away I say goodbye to the days that we would fly by the seat of our pants together to whatever trail we felt like riding whenever we we felt like doing it. I say good bye to the idea that we were just going to ride off into the single hood sunset together. It was a bad deal anyway. We thought about getting shirts made that said "He is my Brother!" or "I am not with Her!" He's getting married instead.
Jack is waiting when I come back in. "It's just me and you now Baby."
I talk to my bike. Sweet. I've lost my mind.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
No Cure
Yesterday marked my third trip around Yankee with Jack. We get along just fine and I am happy to report rapid improvement in our relationship. We made it 2/3's up that matted hill around the 10 mile mark this time. I was talking to Brian about said hill the other day while I was at the shop looking for a new seat post. He told me that the training I am receiving on a fully rigid SS will only enhance my abilities on a geared bike. He said I will be amazed. My heart sank a little bit when he said that. I mean, there is no rule saying I have to go back,right? I told him I couldn't imagine it. I'm already thinking about how I want go about unloading my geared bike. It looks pathetic sitting in the trainer.
We talked a bit about my cadence on the road ride Saturday. A few things need to be dialed in on the bike, but he said the sure cure for cadence is to flip my hub. Maybe by the end of summer I will be a true "Bad Ass", but for now I am just going to enjoy getting to know my bike. It's funny, because although he isn't new ('99 ?)and he has many scars, he sure draws attention out there.
I am not used to that.
Ladies and Gentleman the diagnosis is official, and there is no cure. The disease is chronic and progressive. I have Single Speed Syndrome. Please don't try and help me. I am going to wallow in this as long as I possibly can.
We talked a bit about my cadence on the road ride Saturday. A few things need to be dialed in on the bike, but he said the sure cure for cadence is to flip my hub. Maybe by the end of summer I will be a true "Bad Ass", but for now I am just going to enjoy getting to know my bike. It's funny, because although he isn't new ('99 ?)and he has many scars, he sure draws attention out there.
I am not used to that.
Ladies and Gentleman the diagnosis is official, and there is no cure. The disease is chronic and progressive. I have Single Speed Syndrome. Please don't try and help me. I am going to wallow in this as long as I possibly can.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Personification of Mr. White
March 14, 2009
I rode about 30 miles today on the road. That number is really a guess because my computer isn't functioning. We set out to ride the Barry Roubaix course for the race in two weeks, but we got a little lost. Steve and Brian both concurred that it was about 30. I wouldn't know because I got lost in my mind out there thinking about how my new found love and I would both rather be flying down single track. So I just pedaled and he just rolled up and down monster hills for mile after mile. I could see the ribbon of trail cutting through the woods as I pedaled along. It was so close I could have just dashed off the road and been swept away. My mind keep saying it was too soon but my heart said something entirely different. I asked the guys and Becky if they were game. Nobody had time. I didn't drive so I had to follow the herd back to the car. To try and ease the want growing inside my chest, I told myself the trail was probably super muddy. As I was reluctantly letting go of the fantasy I saw men in tights riding that ribbon like it was all tide up in a cheerleaders hair. I yelled out "How is it? Is it muddy?" they said not at all. I already knew. I was coming back as soon as I got home to my car.
After a quick snack and an email check, I put my SS in the back seat and I was off. I sang off key to him all the way there. He doesn't care that I can make ears bleed with my voice, he just wants to be on the trail with me. We had never been on single track together in ample conditions. It's been mostly snow or road rides so it was difficult to know how we were going to fair together. I caught SS sickness last summer, but there was no way I could make it work. I quit looking because it made my heart ache. I didn't even want to think about what I really wanted. So, I spent most of my time in the big chain ring dreaming, until one day last fall he just showed up. . .
It was the end of October, and I was riding with Steve and Eric on the same roads training for Iceman. Steve told me about this bike that had come into the shop. Listening to him describe it made my heart skip a beat. Thomas had already tipped me off to it but I didn't even let my mind go there. Steve really sparked my curiosity. When we were done riding I snuck down there immediately. I punched in my code and turned on the lights. There he was looking lonely behind the counter. My breath caught in my chest and my mouth went dry. I'm not even lying. He was beautiful. A little on the fixed side with no brakes but beautiful. He was more than I dared to even dream of. He's 26' a little Eccentric, and Rigid. I fell in love at first sight. I snatched him up and promptly named him Jack. I was afraid he would be more than I could handle, but with a little TLC I persuaded him to change. I promised him he wouldn't regret it.
We are just getting to know each other, but every time we chat it leaves me wanting more. I can't get enough. This is what I learned about Jack this afternoon. There is no pretending to be something I am not with him. When we are together I know who I am and what I am capable of. With him, what you see is what you get. If I focus on him and trust him, he tells me what do, like when I need to stand or stay sitting, and he's perfectly happy holding my hand if I should have to walk up that matted hill. He doesn't lie to me. Because he is not suspended I don't have to worry about my security being false. It's funny because without that suspension, I haven't felt, nor have I come close to going over the bars. I know it's early in the season, and I am the Endo Queen, but somehow this one is different. His rigidity may at times be mistaken for coldness, but the warmth comes in the lessons on mercy and forgiveness. I am learning very quickly how to pick better lines. I think he is helping me to be a better person.
March 15, 2009
I had to go back again today. I threw caution to the wind and let it fly. No keeping my heart in check or watching my speed.
What was once a fantasy has become real, and it is better than I could have ever imagined.
Note to self: "Let go!"
I rode about 30 miles today on the road. That number is really a guess because my computer isn't functioning. We set out to ride the Barry Roubaix course for the race in two weeks, but we got a little lost. Steve and Brian both concurred that it was about 30. I wouldn't know because I got lost in my mind out there thinking about how my new found love and I would both rather be flying down single track. So I just pedaled and he just rolled up and down monster hills for mile after mile. I could see the ribbon of trail cutting through the woods as I pedaled along. It was so close I could have just dashed off the road and been swept away. My mind keep saying it was too soon but my heart said something entirely different. I asked the guys and Becky if they were game. Nobody had time. I didn't drive so I had to follow the herd back to the car. To try and ease the want growing inside my chest, I told myself the trail was probably super muddy. As I was reluctantly letting go of the fantasy I saw men in tights riding that ribbon like it was all tide up in a cheerleaders hair. I yelled out "How is it? Is it muddy?" they said not at all. I already knew. I was coming back as soon as I got home to my car.
After a quick snack and an email check, I put my SS in the back seat and I was off. I sang off key to him all the way there. He doesn't care that I can make ears bleed with my voice, he just wants to be on the trail with me. We had never been on single track together in ample conditions. It's been mostly snow or road rides so it was difficult to know how we were going to fair together. I caught SS sickness last summer, but there was no way I could make it work. I quit looking because it made my heart ache. I didn't even want to think about what I really wanted. So, I spent most of my time in the big chain ring dreaming, until one day last fall he just showed up. . .
It was the end of October, and I was riding with Steve and Eric on the same roads training for Iceman. Steve told me about this bike that had come into the shop. Listening to him describe it made my heart skip a beat. Thomas had already tipped me off to it but I didn't even let my mind go there. Steve really sparked my curiosity. When we were done riding I snuck down there immediately. I punched in my code and turned on the lights. There he was looking lonely behind the counter. My breath caught in my chest and my mouth went dry. I'm not even lying. He was beautiful. A little on the fixed side with no brakes but beautiful. He was more than I dared to even dream of. He's 26' a little Eccentric, and Rigid. I fell in love at first sight. I snatched him up and promptly named him Jack. I was afraid he would be more than I could handle, but with a little TLC I persuaded him to change. I promised him he wouldn't regret it.
We are just getting to know each other, but every time we chat it leaves me wanting more. I can't get enough. This is what I learned about Jack this afternoon. There is no pretending to be something I am not with him. When we are together I know who I am and what I am capable of. With him, what you see is what you get. If I focus on him and trust him, he tells me what do, like when I need to stand or stay sitting, and he's perfectly happy holding my hand if I should have to walk up that matted hill. He doesn't lie to me. Because he is not suspended I don't have to worry about my security being false. It's funny because without that suspension, I haven't felt, nor have I come close to going over the bars. I know it's early in the season, and I am the Endo Queen, but somehow this one is different. His rigidity may at times be mistaken for coldness, but the warmth comes in the lessons on mercy and forgiveness. I am learning very quickly how to pick better lines. I think he is helping me to be a better person.
March 15, 2009
I had to go back again today. I threw caution to the wind and let it fly. No keeping my heart in check or watching my speed.
What was once a fantasy has become real, and it is better than I could have ever imagined.
Note to self: "Let go!"
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Miracle
We have to write an essay for our final in English. The topics on the list we get to pick from are very vague and general. Looking at the list I tried to find something I was qualified to write about since it is an opinion paper. Here is the list:
1. War in Iraq
2. Stereo types-tattoos and piercings
3. Toys that children play with
4. Changes in lifestyles
5. Homelessness
6. Economy
7. Car seat safety
8. Teen Pregnancies
9. The way that children deal with death.
10. Drunk driving
11. Abusive relationships
12. Road rage
13. Prejudice
14. Former Felons
15. Gay marriages
16. Gangs
17. Anger management
18. Country vs. City living
19. Domestic Violence
20. Internet
21. Competitive sports
There are a few topics here that unfortunately I know a little bit about through personal experience. Gay marriage isn't one of them, so it was immediately excluded as a possible topic, as well as Gangs or the Economy. I know they are there and I know they both suck. That's my opinion on that. Unfortunately that's not enough to woo my way past the essay committee in Flint and pass the class. The other things I know a little bit about, but still not really enough to fill up three pages double spaced. This sounds awful, but I tend to shield myself from much of what is going on in the world. I rarely watch t.v., and I only listen to NPR if the radio stations aren't singing my tune. That being the case, I picked the topic that I have the most personal experience with. Naturally I picked "The way children deal with death."
After starting this paper, I instantly regretted picking it, because I really don't know how they deal with it. I know how I dealt with it, but the paper is an opinion paper not a personal experience paper. Here's my experience. Form your opinions as you wish.
My little sister and I went to church that Sunday with my friend Michelle. Michelle and I were in seventh grade. We didn't go to church as a family when I was a kid, so going with Michelle was kinda spooky, but I liked it. She went to a full Gospel church that met downtown in an upstairs loft near the restaurant my mother worked at. I really wanted to learn more about this Jesus character whose name my mother screamed a lot. So, we would steal her mom's cigarettes, puff them down, go to church, get slain in the spirit and everything was cool. On this particular Sunday we watched a film on the Shroud of Turin. People sang in tongues afterwards. They sounded like angels. It made me cry. I got caught up in the emotionalism of it all. The pastor asked me if I wanted to be baptized. I said yes.
This wasn't the first time I had said yes to Christ. Occasionally a Sunday school bus would come by to pick us up when I was very little. I must have been 5 or 6. It was all milk and cookies cool until they herded us Little Lambs to the basement of the church. My sister and I clung together. The Sunday school teacher looked like the guy from the movie "Phantasm" with a 40 watt bulb swinging over his head. He said if we didn't ask Jesus into our hearts we were going to burn in hell. Frankly I didn't think things could be much worse than they were above ground, but the thought of burning for eternity didn't appeal so much to me,so I said yes. With every fiber of my being I said yes. I have wanted to be good ever since. I thought by doing this it would make me good. I was wrong.
So after the pastor laid his hands on me that day in Michelle's church, and I was "born again" for the third time in my life, we set off for home to steal more cigarettes. Michelle lived just down the street from me. If you turned on our road you went up a big curvy hill. You could see my house straight ahead as you crested it. It looked like the road actually dead ended into our house but it curved around it to the right. Michelle lived on the right hand side of the road about an eighth of a mile away from me. As we were pulling into her driveway I noticed there were tons of cars parked in my yard. I said "Someone is dead." Why I would say that, I have no idea. We went inside. Kay (Michelle's mom) called the house to see what was going on. I remember her silence just before her hand covered her mouth, and then the short choppy sobs of disbelief. I just kept thinking, "If I don't go home then none of this is real." Kay said "Marty is dead." I asked if I could stay at their house. She said our mom wanted us to come home. All the way out to the car I was screaming inside for God to take it back. Make it not real. Take me instead. Whatever. I didn't care. I just knew he didn't deserve to die, because he was good.
When we got to the front porch my mom came out. My little sister took off running. My mom chased her. As I stood there I thought I saw Marty walking toward me. For a brief second God had answered my prayer. My heart swelled. I couldn't wait to tell him that everyone thought he was dead. As he got closer I could see it wasn't him after all. It was my cousin Perry. He had on a shirt exactly like one Marty owned. My brother died twice that day.
I remember someone taking me into the T.V. room. I had gum in my mouth. I remember thinking how absurd it was for me to have gum in my mouth, because if I hadn't have gone to church and been baptized my brother wouldn't be dead right now. Maybe if I never chewed gum again, this would all stop. It's funny how the mind actually loses touch with what is real in it's feeble attempts to try and grasp it. All these thoughts ran through my head as I demanded the details of how he died. Evidently someone had pulled over to pick some flowers in a little gully betweeen two hills. They were parked in blind spot on a country road. He died for flowers?
Nothing made sense.
Something got extra broken inside of me when he died. During this whole process, the viewing and the funeral, I would hear people talk. They would come up to me and say things. I've comprised a short list of what not to say to a grieving child. The list differs if it is an abusive parent who dies. That one is especially grotesque, but this one isn't much better:
1) "You are so strong!"
2) "It won't always feel this bad."
3) "God wants the good ones with him."
4) "Marty can see everything you do now."
Number one is a sore spot for me to this day. They were stupid and wrong to say those things, but people do stupid and wrong when they don't know what else to do. I was absolutely fragmented inside, and I can still feel that initial ripping away of a part of me when he died, like skin coming off with the band-aide of my soul. He was my brother. He was sixteen. He taught me everything from riding my very first bike, how to hit a line drive, how to jump rope, how to wrestle, how to climb on top of the school next door and jump back down, how to swim, and most importantly how to throw a punch. Whatever he was doing I wanted to do too. It didn't matter what, because he was always proud. He always told me I could do it. The "it" I was doing was not relevant. He believed in me. He never gave up on me. It didn't seem to bother him that I was around. He grew up in the same house as I did, and suffered the same things we all did, but somehow, in my eyes he was untainted by it all. I didn't know what I was going to do without him.
Nine months later my mother died.
When I was sixteen I was a passenger in a car that crashed on the same road Marty died on. The police said we all should have been dead. I broke my ankle instead.
Two years later my brother Matt died two days before my nineteenth birthday in a drunk driving accident on the same road. He was twenty three.
When I was doing the research to support my opinions for my paper I was kind of taken aback. There are volume after volume of case studies of the effects of trauma on children in the developemental years. I'm pretty sure I got stuck. At fourteen I felt like I was 40 years old. I'll be 40 this summer. I don't feel like I am a day over 14. Although my responses to trauma and abuse were horrific, they were absolutely textbook. My picture could have been in every article that I read. If I don't learn anything else over the next 2-3 years, my education has been worth this small bit of information. I didn't expect to learn so much about myself. It's very freeing. It's another step toward love, whatever that is.
I'd say this is a particularly hard time of year for me. It is riddled with death anniversaries and dead peoples birthdays. I've spent much of my life trying in very unhealthy ways to "Get over it." It is a struggle to not be defined by it all. Maybe getting over it means finally telling the truth about my experiences and the shitty things I did in response to them; not to excuse my behavior, but to be able to see it for what it is. Inspite of the counselors and psychiatrist I have exhausted, I still hurt. I also still believe in Christ. I still want to be good. I still cry every Sunday in church, and I haven't stopped being reborn, which is a good thing because when I was young I was far too old. And every spring when the flowers bloom along side of the road, I think of my brother and how he died for them. The miracle is this~I can't think of anything better to die for.
1. War in Iraq
2. Stereo types-tattoos and piercings
3. Toys that children play with
4. Changes in lifestyles
5. Homelessness
6. Economy
7. Car seat safety
8. Teen Pregnancies
9. The way that children deal with death.
10. Drunk driving
11. Abusive relationships
12. Road rage
13. Prejudice
14. Former Felons
15. Gay marriages
16. Gangs
17. Anger management
18. Country vs. City living
19. Domestic Violence
20. Internet
21. Competitive sports
There are a few topics here that unfortunately I know a little bit about through personal experience. Gay marriage isn't one of them, so it was immediately excluded as a possible topic, as well as Gangs or the Economy. I know they are there and I know they both suck. That's my opinion on that. Unfortunately that's not enough to woo my way past the essay committee in Flint and pass the class. The other things I know a little bit about, but still not really enough to fill up three pages double spaced. This sounds awful, but I tend to shield myself from much of what is going on in the world. I rarely watch t.v., and I only listen to NPR if the radio stations aren't singing my tune. That being the case, I picked the topic that I have the most personal experience with. Naturally I picked "The way children deal with death."
After starting this paper, I instantly regretted picking it, because I really don't know how they deal with it. I know how I dealt with it, but the paper is an opinion paper not a personal experience paper. Here's my experience. Form your opinions as you wish.
My little sister and I went to church that Sunday with my friend Michelle. Michelle and I were in seventh grade. We didn't go to church as a family when I was a kid, so going with Michelle was kinda spooky, but I liked it. She went to a full Gospel church that met downtown in an upstairs loft near the restaurant my mother worked at. I really wanted to learn more about this Jesus character whose name my mother screamed a lot. So, we would steal her mom's cigarettes, puff them down, go to church, get slain in the spirit and everything was cool. On this particular Sunday we watched a film on the Shroud of Turin. People sang in tongues afterwards. They sounded like angels. It made me cry. I got caught up in the emotionalism of it all. The pastor asked me if I wanted to be baptized. I said yes.
This wasn't the first time I had said yes to Christ. Occasionally a Sunday school bus would come by to pick us up when I was very little. I must have been 5 or 6. It was all milk and cookies cool until they herded us Little Lambs to the basement of the church. My sister and I clung together. The Sunday school teacher looked like the guy from the movie "Phantasm" with a 40 watt bulb swinging over his head. He said if we didn't ask Jesus into our hearts we were going to burn in hell. Frankly I didn't think things could be much worse than they were above ground, but the thought of burning for eternity didn't appeal so much to me,so I said yes. With every fiber of my being I said yes. I have wanted to be good ever since. I thought by doing this it would make me good. I was wrong.
So after the pastor laid his hands on me that day in Michelle's church, and I was "born again" for the third time in my life, we set off for home to steal more cigarettes. Michelle lived just down the street from me. If you turned on our road you went up a big curvy hill. You could see my house straight ahead as you crested it. It looked like the road actually dead ended into our house but it curved around it to the right. Michelle lived on the right hand side of the road about an eighth of a mile away from me. As we were pulling into her driveway I noticed there were tons of cars parked in my yard. I said "Someone is dead." Why I would say that, I have no idea. We went inside. Kay (Michelle's mom) called the house to see what was going on. I remember her silence just before her hand covered her mouth, and then the short choppy sobs of disbelief. I just kept thinking, "If I don't go home then none of this is real." Kay said "Marty is dead." I asked if I could stay at their house. She said our mom wanted us to come home. All the way out to the car I was screaming inside for God to take it back. Make it not real. Take me instead. Whatever. I didn't care. I just knew he didn't deserve to die, because he was good.
When we got to the front porch my mom came out. My little sister took off running. My mom chased her. As I stood there I thought I saw Marty walking toward me. For a brief second God had answered my prayer. My heart swelled. I couldn't wait to tell him that everyone thought he was dead. As he got closer I could see it wasn't him after all. It was my cousin Perry. He had on a shirt exactly like one Marty owned. My brother died twice that day.
I remember someone taking me into the T.V. room. I had gum in my mouth. I remember thinking how absurd it was for me to have gum in my mouth, because if I hadn't have gone to church and been baptized my brother wouldn't be dead right now. Maybe if I never chewed gum again, this would all stop. It's funny how the mind actually loses touch with what is real in it's feeble attempts to try and grasp it. All these thoughts ran through my head as I demanded the details of how he died. Evidently someone had pulled over to pick some flowers in a little gully betweeen two hills. They were parked in blind spot on a country road. He died for flowers?
Nothing made sense.
Something got extra broken inside of me when he died. During this whole process, the viewing and the funeral, I would hear people talk. They would come up to me and say things. I've comprised a short list of what not to say to a grieving child. The list differs if it is an abusive parent who dies. That one is especially grotesque, but this one isn't much better:
1) "You are so strong!"
2) "It won't always feel this bad."
3) "God wants the good ones with him."
4) "Marty can see everything you do now."
Number one is a sore spot for me to this day. They were stupid and wrong to say those things, but people do stupid and wrong when they don't know what else to do. I was absolutely fragmented inside, and I can still feel that initial ripping away of a part of me when he died, like skin coming off with the band-aide of my soul. He was my brother. He was sixteen. He taught me everything from riding my very first bike, how to hit a line drive, how to jump rope, how to wrestle, how to climb on top of the school next door and jump back down, how to swim, and most importantly how to throw a punch. Whatever he was doing I wanted to do too. It didn't matter what, because he was always proud. He always told me I could do it. The "it" I was doing was not relevant. He believed in me. He never gave up on me. It didn't seem to bother him that I was around. He grew up in the same house as I did, and suffered the same things we all did, but somehow, in my eyes he was untainted by it all. I didn't know what I was going to do without him.
Nine months later my mother died.
When I was sixteen I was a passenger in a car that crashed on the same road Marty died on. The police said we all should have been dead. I broke my ankle instead.
Two years later my brother Matt died two days before my nineteenth birthday in a drunk driving accident on the same road. He was twenty three.
When I was doing the research to support my opinions for my paper I was kind of taken aback. There are volume after volume of case studies of the effects of trauma on children in the developemental years. I'm pretty sure I got stuck. At fourteen I felt like I was 40 years old. I'll be 40 this summer. I don't feel like I am a day over 14. Although my responses to trauma and abuse were horrific, they were absolutely textbook. My picture could have been in every article that I read. If I don't learn anything else over the next 2-3 years, my education has been worth this small bit of information. I didn't expect to learn so much about myself. It's very freeing. It's another step toward love, whatever that is.
I'd say this is a particularly hard time of year for me. It is riddled with death anniversaries and dead peoples birthdays. I've spent much of my life trying in very unhealthy ways to "Get over it." It is a struggle to not be defined by it all. Maybe getting over it means finally telling the truth about my experiences and the shitty things I did in response to them; not to excuse my behavior, but to be able to see it for what it is. Inspite of the counselors and psychiatrist I have exhausted, I still hurt. I also still believe in Christ. I still want to be good. I still cry every Sunday in church, and I haven't stopped being reborn, which is a good thing because when I was young I was far too old. And every spring when the flowers bloom along side of the road, I think of my brother and how he died for them. The miracle is this~I can't think of anything better to die for.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Sweat
I wondered
if anyone could tell
the difference
between my sweat
and the tears
that dripped off
the end of my nose
to puddled
between my feet
that just spun
in place
with the ryhthm
of every song
that played
reminding me of you.
If we
should ever ride
I wonder
after all that
I've done
at the end of the trail
will you take
my face in your hands
and say you love me still?
Brush away
these tears
and bring me back
to that innocent place
I don't remember
ever
forgive me...
I'm sweating tears
my whole body
cries for you.
if anyone could tell
the difference
between my sweat
and the tears
that dripped off
the end of my nose
to puddled
between my feet
that just spun
in place
with the ryhthm
of every song
that played
reminding me of you.
If we
should ever ride
I wonder
after all that
I've done
at the end of the trail
will you take
my face in your hands
and say you love me still?
Brush away
these tears
and bring me back
to that innocent place
I don't remember
ever
forgive me...
I'm sweating tears
my whole body
cries for you.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Princess Water
I went to bible study this week. I didn't go the week before because I had to try to find something to wear to my friends funeral. I considered not going this week because every other week we watch a video, do the lesson during the week, and discuss it the following Tues. I didn't do the lessons cause I didn't watch the video. Not that I would have done the lesson if I had. I've got more important stuff to do; like write blogs and obsessively check my e-mail. Ladies and gentleman you can have all this and more under the umbrella of homework. Not to make light of my lack of discipline but it's not so much about the bible study for me. It's about the relationships I have established with these women. They have been slow to grow because....I don't like women.
My first female friend from church was Nancy. She got me by default. She worked on the Helps Committee, and boy did I need helps. Bad. She played the role of mentor for a while. Now she is like an older sister/mother when I can leave myself vulnerable. Nancy invited me to join the study several times. I used the excuse that it cut into my biking, which it does; and I'm a freak, which I am, and I wouldn't fit in. The truth is I still sometimes view the people I encounter at church as the Shiny Happy Christian People. Hence my reluctance to subject myself for more than just a Sunday service. The church that I go to is huge, 3,000 per service and the pastor gets alot of bad press. If you google his name you'll find people that actually think he's the anti-christ. Awesome I say.
This is what I've learned about judgement. I'm not fit to. Especially from far away. The dichotomy between what happens in that church and the negative press it receives is a chasm large enough to swallow this fuzzy mitten I live in. I attended for 5 years before I became a member. I didn't want to do anything impulsive. I mean I was trying to break old habits right? So when the invitation for bible study came again, I reluctantly said "I'll go check it out, but I can't promise you I'll stay". That first night I wouldn't even tell these women my last name and I wouldn't write in the book because I wasn't coming back. We were laughing about it Tuesday night, because things certainly have changed. My judgement was way off.
I'm still not entirely comfortable there. Nobody is I've noticed. You can tell. The study begs us to answer personal questions and lays out the opportunity to share. This is where I've realized just how much a symphony of crickets resembles some of Vivaldi's work. My desire to share usually burns under the surface, but I've never been one to jump first, especially with the Shiny Happy Christian types. This week a woman got honest. I'll try not to go into the details of her story, but I'll tell you what I shared with the group in response.
In '97 I tried to kill myself. I swallowed enough Klonipin to kill a horse. I wanted this young woman to know that no one could have stopped me, for a few reasons. One, I didn't tell anybody my plan. Two, I didn't tell any body my plan. It was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Her veil was wearing thin. I asked her if she felt responsible for keeping him alive, and of course she did. Our leader asked me who stopped me from killing myself. To which I replied, "Nobody did. That's God's job." This poor woman is being held hostage by the living dead. I looked her in the eye and told her that no matter what happens, she is not responsible for the actions of an irrational person. I told her that people like that are sick and need help. I know. I told her the most loving thing she could do is call the authorities. There were no dry eyes in that group of women during prayer that night.
I don't mean to sound calloused about the suicidal. Experience seems to breed compassion. That state of mind is not foreign to me. Sue asked me how I recovered from it. How did I become willing to live again? Meet someone who really wants to die and succeeds. Watch in horror as his sister cleans his brains off the couch. Sort through his things and imagine you can still feel his presence in them. See the despairing relief in his mothers eyes. She doesn't have to worry about when it's going to happen again.
This is the thing with me. I can't see myself. It's hard to see the picture when you are the star of the show. When my dad came to see me in the hospital I saw that look of despair in his eyes too. It never occured to me that if I succeeded, I would have been the third child he buried. It never occured to me that my children might actually be better off if I was alive. It never occured to me that God loved me inspite of everything I had done, and was probably going to do again.
At Gregs funeral I made a descision. I decided that his life, although over in the flesh wouldn't be wasted. It could at least keep me alive even if I didn't think I deserved to be, and it did, until I wanted to be.
I want to live like I have never wanted to before. I don't mean anything spectacular like fortune and fame. I mean loving people in general. It's hard because honestly, you guys suck alot of the time, except for my few select friends of course. I went to the bike shop to pick up the love of my life tonight. As I was driving home I pondered who I was going to love besides him. I stopped at Marnies on the way home before I could delve too far into self pity. Her brothers were there doing the things her husband would have been doing. A business called asking for him. "My husband passed away" she said. I wonder if she will ever get used to saying that. I got to love on those two beautiful boys and help get them ready for bed. I loved someone today. It was a good day. Look, I realize that my knight in shinning armour will never show up with the princess water. Not in real life anyway. I might not get the kind of love that I want. I get the kind I need.
Oh, I almost forgot. My boyfriends back and there is gonna be trouble. I took him across the street to the park and ran him through the mud in the dark. I think he liked it.
My first female friend from church was Nancy. She got me by default. She worked on the Helps Committee, and boy did I need helps. Bad. She played the role of mentor for a while. Now she is like an older sister/mother when I can leave myself vulnerable. Nancy invited me to join the study several times. I used the excuse that it cut into my biking, which it does; and I'm a freak, which I am, and I wouldn't fit in. The truth is I still sometimes view the people I encounter at church as the Shiny Happy Christian People. Hence my reluctance to subject myself for more than just a Sunday service. The church that I go to is huge, 3,000 per service and the pastor gets alot of bad press. If you google his name you'll find people that actually think he's the anti-christ. Awesome I say.
This is what I've learned about judgement. I'm not fit to. Especially from far away. The dichotomy between what happens in that church and the negative press it receives is a chasm large enough to swallow this fuzzy mitten I live in. I attended for 5 years before I became a member. I didn't want to do anything impulsive. I mean I was trying to break old habits right? So when the invitation for bible study came again, I reluctantly said "I'll go check it out, but I can't promise you I'll stay". That first night I wouldn't even tell these women my last name and I wouldn't write in the book because I wasn't coming back. We were laughing about it Tuesday night, because things certainly have changed. My judgement was way off.
I'm still not entirely comfortable there. Nobody is I've noticed. You can tell. The study begs us to answer personal questions and lays out the opportunity to share. This is where I've realized just how much a symphony of crickets resembles some of Vivaldi's work. My desire to share usually burns under the surface, but I've never been one to jump first, especially with the Shiny Happy Christian types. This week a woman got honest. I'll try not to go into the details of her story, but I'll tell you what I shared with the group in response.
In '97 I tried to kill myself. I swallowed enough Klonipin to kill a horse. I wanted this young woman to know that no one could have stopped me, for a few reasons. One, I didn't tell anybody my plan. Two, I didn't tell any body my plan. It was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Her veil was wearing thin. I asked her if she felt responsible for keeping him alive, and of course she did. Our leader asked me who stopped me from killing myself. To which I replied, "Nobody did. That's God's job." This poor woman is being held hostage by the living dead. I looked her in the eye and told her that no matter what happens, she is not responsible for the actions of an irrational person. I told her that people like that are sick and need help. I know. I told her the most loving thing she could do is call the authorities. There were no dry eyes in that group of women during prayer that night.
I don't mean to sound calloused about the suicidal. Experience seems to breed compassion. That state of mind is not foreign to me. Sue asked me how I recovered from it. How did I become willing to live again? Meet someone who really wants to die and succeeds. Watch in horror as his sister cleans his brains off the couch. Sort through his things and imagine you can still feel his presence in them. See the despairing relief in his mothers eyes. She doesn't have to worry about when it's going to happen again.
This is the thing with me. I can't see myself. It's hard to see the picture when you are the star of the show. When my dad came to see me in the hospital I saw that look of despair in his eyes too. It never occured to me that if I succeeded, I would have been the third child he buried. It never occured to me that my children might actually be better off if I was alive. It never occured to me that God loved me inspite of everything I had done, and was probably going to do again.
At Gregs funeral I made a descision. I decided that his life, although over in the flesh wouldn't be wasted. It could at least keep me alive even if I didn't think I deserved to be, and it did, until I wanted to be.
I want to live like I have never wanted to before. I don't mean anything spectacular like fortune and fame. I mean loving people in general. It's hard because honestly, you guys suck alot of the time, except for my few select friends of course. I went to the bike shop to pick up the love of my life tonight. As I was driving home I pondered who I was going to love besides him. I stopped at Marnies on the way home before I could delve too far into self pity. Her brothers were there doing the things her husband would have been doing. A business called asking for him. "My husband passed away" she said. I wonder if she will ever get used to saying that. I got to love on those two beautiful boys and help get them ready for bed. I loved someone today. It was a good day. Look, I realize that my knight in shinning armour will never show up with the princess water. Not in real life anyway. I might not get the kind of love that I want. I get the kind I need.
Oh, I almost forgot. My boyfriends back and there is gonna be trouble. I took him across the street to the park and ran him through the mud in the dark. I think he liked it.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Love and Pretzles
I drove Jimmy Jam's kids back to his ex in Fowlerville this after noon. I call him Jimmy Jam because he is always in a jam. He called at 7:30 this morning needing to go to the store. Last week while he was in court the judge asked him what it was going to take to get him to stop driving. I guess the $600.00+ in fines added to the thousands he already owes was enough to get him to stop. For a minute anyway; but as always the pain wears off with Jimmy Jam and eventually his thinking lulls him into the false belief that it will be different this time. Jimmy Jam baffles me.
In the shower this morning getting ready for church I was contemplating the lessons I learn from whatever is presented to me in a given day. In the midst of this my brain is spinning on how I'm gonna ride my bike, go to yoga, and spend time with the two teenagers under my roof that could care less, plus homework. My mind focuses in on yoga. I love yoga. I love pretzles as well, but I don't eat them any more because I'm gluten free, so it stands to reason that the next best thing is twisting myself into one every Wed. and Sun. The only thing I dislike about yoga class is my ex-boyfriend shows up when he is in the mood for some self inflicted punishment. His lack of flexibility is a direct reflection of where he is mentally and spiritually. I throw up in my mouth a little bit everytime I see him. I especially hate when he tries to talk to me. Last week before class he approached me and stuck out his hand as if I would shake it. Just seven days prior I told him it wasn't neccessary for him to check up on me. I pretended like he wasn't there. He left class. This is what I mean by self inflicted punishment. He tells all our mutual friends that he misses me. He believes this. It's been roughly 18 months since he broke up with me. That was the most loving thing he did for me during the course of our time together. I mean that. It set me free to really love someone someday.
I start thinking about all the people I know who are coupled. I have very few good examples. My loneliness diminshes. One example is Josh and Marnie.
At first glance one might think that this is just your average "Bald guy marrying Barbie" photo. Not too long before this photo was taken Josh was told he had six months to live. If you look closely at the photo you can see the scar on the side of his head where surgeons removed a stage 4 glioblastoma. Look even closer and you can see that what one might mistake as cake in this photo, is actually nothing but love. He stayed alive for 6 years on one bite alone. This is what love does. It gives life. They could see the end from the beginning but they were in it together. There is something sacred in the cry of a young widow beating her fists in her lap, begging God to bring back the love of her life. Perhaps the tears of true love are holy. I've seen them one other time in my life.
Her name was Grace and although she was confined to a wheel chair, she did her name justice. I used to work in a nursing home. Grace was one of my patients. She was always very composed and dignified; that is until her husband would come to see her. Everyday around the same time he would come to visit, and find Grace primping in the bathroom like a teenage girl getting ready for prom. I was in the room one day when he showed up. Her countenance melted like butter as he reached down in his eagerness to embrace her. They burned for each other. You could feel the heat coming off them I swear. Her husband was leaving one day as I was approaching the next room. He glanced my way and bowed his head a bit like a gentleman does. He was crying. Holy. "I hate leaving her here" he said everytime someone was near enough to hear him as he left. Grace was 50. She had Mutiple Sclerosis.
Someone told me yesterday that maybe inspite of my circumstances I have it pretty good. I am becoming more and more aware of this with each day that passes. I still tend to look at life through the lenses of what I don't have though. I don't have someone laying next to me at night that doesn't love me. I've grown to prefer that over the alternative. I'm grateful for what I don't have today. I'm still not entirely sure what love entails exactly. You don't survive the life I've lived without things getting warped, but I recognize it when I see it. I'm convinced it is not a noun.
On the way home from Fowlwerville I thought about Jimmy Jam. Jimmy Jam doesn't talk much about the break up. I think the pain got great enough for him to be grateful for what he doesn't have. I thought about what he lost. I don't know the whole story, but from what I know, I don't think it was love. I can't wrap my mind around love looking like that. Now, if he will just stop driving...
The pretzles were good in Yoga today. Thank God.
In the shower this morning getting ready for church I was contemplating the lessons I learn from whatever is presented to me in a given day. In the midst of this my brain is spinning on how I'm gonna ride my bike, go to yoga, and spend time with the two teenagers under my roof that could care less, plus homework. My mind focuses in on yoga. I love yoga. I love pretzles as well, but I don't eat them any more because I'm gluten free, so it stands to reason that the next best thing is twisting myself into one every Wed. and Sun. The only thing I dislike about yoga class is my ex-boyfriend shows up when he is in the mood for some self inflicted punishment. His lack of flexibility is a direct reflection of where he is mentally and spiritually. I throw up in my mouth a little bit everytime I see him. I especially hate when he tries to talk to me. Last week before class he approached me and stuck out his hand as if I would shake it. Just seven days prior I told him it wasn't neccessary for him to check up on me. I pretended like he wasn't there. He left class. This is what I mean by self inflicted punishment. He tells all our mutual friends that he misses me. He believes this. It's been roughly 18 months since he broke up with me. That was the most loving thing he did for me during the course of our time together. I mean that. It set me free to really love someone someday.
I start thinking about all the people I know who are coupled. I have very few good examples. My loneliness diminshes. One example is Josh and Marnie.
At first glance one might think that this is just your average "Bald guy marrying Barbie" photo. Not too long before this photo was taken Josh was told he had six months to live. If you look closely at the photo you can see the scar on the side of his head where surgeons removed a stage 4 glioblastoma. Look even closer and you can see that what one might mistake as cake in this photo, is actually nothing but love. He stayed alive for 6 years on one bite alone. This is what love does. It gives life. They could see the end from the beginning but they were in it together. There is something sacred in the cry of a young widow beating her fists in her lap, begging God to bring back the love of her life. Perhaps the tears of true love are holy. I've seen them one other time in my life.
Her name was Grace and although she was confined to a wheel chair, she did her name justice. I used to work in a nursing home. Grace was one of my patients. She was always very composed and dignified; that is until her husband would come to see her. Everyday around the same time he would come to visit, and find Grace primping in the bathroom like a teenage girl getting ready for prom. I was in the room one day when he showed up. Her countenance melted like butter as he reached down in his eagerness to embrace her. They burned for each other. You could feel the heat coming off them I swear. Her husband was leaving one day as I was approaching the next room. He glanced my way and bowed his head a bit like a gentleman does. He was crying. Holy. "I hate leaving her here" he said everytime someone was near enough to hear him as he left. Grace was 50. She had Mutiple Sclerosis.
Someone told me yesterday that maybe inspite of my circumstances I have it pretty good. I am becoming more and more aware of this with each day that passes. I still tend to look at life through the lenses of what I don't have though. I don't have someone laying next to me at night that doesn't love me. I've grown to prefer that over the alternative. I'm grateful for what I don't have today. I'm still not entirely sure what love entails exactly. You don't survive the life I've lived without things getting warped, but I recognize it when I see it. I'm convinced it is not a noun.
On the way home from Fowlwerville I thought about Jimmy Jam. Jimmy Jam doesn't talk much about the break up. I think the pain got great enough for him to be grateful for what he doesn't have. I thought about what he lost. I don't know the whole story, but from what I know, I don't think it was love. I can't wrap my mind around love looking like that. Now, if he will just stop driving...
The pretzles were good in Yoga today. Thank God.
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