the urge

I've been singing the queen song under my breath all morning, you know, the one that states I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it now . . .
and I'm watching the rain continue to fall, lightly, down to the thoroughly sopping wet ground.

and I believe it will dry up by this afternoon so I can go ride my bike.
I am hanging on to this belief with every ounce of my being, and I will not let go.

I so want to write here about my outdoor ride: the chill air upon my cheeks and the freshness circulating through my respiratory system, the smells of a humid february day and the pure excitement of riding a flat road at a brisk pace instead of sitting in a sweat-filled room listening to music pound from speakers mounted on the four enclosing walls. I want to write about my new wheels, how fun and fabulous they are, how I can feel their gift to me with each revolution: I'm light, I'm aerodynamic, I'm here to help you swoop and fly.
I want to write about joy and freedom and purity and connecting with what truly matters, that vital spark of energy within that ignites when I'm participating in the great big world out there.

I've spent a lot of time during the past 5 weeks indoors, being quiet and alternatively contemplative and numb. I've read a library shelf's worth of books, and I've sat huddling under blankets trying to lessen the chill of my stunned and aching heart. I've ignored the greater world, and I've looked out my windows with a sense of incomprehension. the world continues, it gently rotates and grows and shrinks regardless of whether I participate in it or not.
I haven't wanted much to participate in it this last while. an occasional urge has pushed me out, and then I've retreated again to the safety of my home's protective womb.
today, however, I want to honor the almost microscopic voice within that is asking me to go out there, to touch and feel and breathe and listen.

if the skies will only play along with me, and take their moisture further up the hillside, to where all the skiers and boarders beg for more. and leave this lone cyclist to a bit of dry pavement, where she can honor that tiny voice and find a place to fully be who she craves to be.