some days I have to be the ant,
some days I'm swamped with simply being a mom,
and some days,
it snows.
riding has been great all week as I've fit in those hour or ninety minute rides.
but come this weekend, when I want to ride longer, what happens?
snow happens.
lyrics to that old byrds song (though I did just discover that pete seeger wrote and first recorded it) are strumming through my head, to everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season, turn, turn, turn . . .
at the moment, looking out my window, I believe we have some seasonal confusion occurring. my majestic old trees are thick with leaves, many of them still green and only beginning to brown and curl at the edges. my maple has turned gold, but for some reason is reluctant to drop its decor. the others (lindens, maybe?) are rife with green, thick and heavy, drooping, now, under the weight of four inches of powdery snow.
to live in a place where the weather varied little would challenge me: as much as I love (love) to ride, my appreciation for it only grows when I am kept from it by seasonal disruptions. there is a time when fields should lie fallow.
these are difficult times to work through in life, frustrating times, times where emotions surge and our egoic mind tells us we are missing out/worthless/on the wrong path/confused.
stillness does not come easily to us, and none of us ever want to move in a direction that seems to be backwards from where we were.
but stillness is also a period of regrowth, of healing, of mending things we had no idea needed to be mended. just as our muscles strengthen during the rest cycle, and relationships strengthen after rupture and repair, our psyches themselves become stronger and richer when we allow ourselves to slow down, rest, and be still.
and simply be.
so, today I am enjoying the snow. I will putter around my house and dust when I want to, straighten as it calls to me, do laundry if I feel like it, and put pen to paper when so moved. I will not stress about my lack of exercise, and I will light candles in my rooms. I will breathe deeply and know that the snow has allowed my physical self and my internal self to have a break from routine and to relish the simply act of being.
namaste.
(okay, but if the sun stays out and the roads dry up . . . hmm . . . )
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
tennis, anyone?
stranded in a waiting room this afternoon without book, notebook, or pen, I turned to the magazines scattered on the endtable. Family Fun, Home Journal, Newsweek, Cruising World (really?), Ser Padres . . . nope, nope, nope, ah, Tennis. well, it was the best of a weak selection.
and what did I turn to but a column titled The Gift of Tennis. the author began by describing how happy he felt to pass by people jogging on treadmills---staring dead ahead, solemn, bored---and spinning maniacally on spin bikes---music pounding loudly while the instructor yells at them---and move on to the tennis court, the best place in the world to be.
I grinned.
we all find our favorite places, don't we?
and thank you, God, we don't all choose the same place, for then my bike lanes would be much too crowded.
every time I ride up emigration canyon I pass through a golf course and a set of tennis courts, the latter uncovered and open to the sun for five months, hidden under a huge white bubble the rest of the year.
I don't envy the golfers, but I do experience a twang of envy for those playing tennis. I do love tennis. and to be good at it would be a thrill. but it's hard to do by yourself, whenever you can fit it into your day, spontaneously.
some day I will play tennis again. the columnist pointed out its benefits: hand-eye coordination, strategic thinking, and---in his eyes, the best---the society surrounding the sport.
cycling does ask us to think strategically at times and to be coordinated (especially in pace lines), and to share ourselves with others . . . but, quite obviously, not to the same degree as tennis.
rushes are provided by both, fitness, joy, camaraderie.
and someday, perhaps, I'll add a smidgen of tennis back into my life.
but for now I'm happy to pass the bubble and inhale fresh, clean, crisp air, as the days draw me nearer and nearer to the stuffy, smelly, dreary spin room (which is thankfully blessed with a wall of windows that let me connect with the real world), where the music is loud and the instructors yell at us, and people walk by and think thank God I'm not in there but am heading to the tennis court, instead.
and what did I turn to but a column titled The Gift of Tennis. the author began by describing how happy he felt to pass by people jogging on treadmills---staring dead ahead, solemn, bored---and spinning maniacally on spin bikes---music pounding loudly while the instructor yells at them---and move on to the tennis court, the best place in the world to be.
I grinned.
we all find our favorite places, don't we?
and thank you, God, we don't all choose the same place, for then my bike lanes would be much too crowded.
every time I ride up emigration canyon I pass through a golf course and a set of tennis courts, the latter uncovered and open to the sun for five months, hidden under a huge white bubble the rest of the year.
I don't envy the golfers, but I do experience a twang of envy for those playing tennis. I do love tennis. and to be good at it would be a thrill. but it's hard to do by yourself, whenever you can fit it into your day, spontaneously.
some day I will play tennis again. the columnist pointed out its benefits: hand-eye coordination, strategic thinking, and---in his eyes, the best---the society surrounding the sport.
cycling does ask us to think strategically at times and to be coordinated (especially in pace lines), and to share ourselves with others . . . but, quite obviously, not to the same degree as tennis.
rushes are provided by both, fitness, joy, camaraderie.
and someday, perhaps, I'll add a smidgen of tennis back into my life.
but for now I'm happy to pass the bubble and inhale fresh, clean, crisp air, as the days draw me nearer and nearer to the stuffy, smelly, dreary spin room (which is thankfully blessed with a wall of windows that let me connect with the real world), where the music is loud and the instructors yell at us, and people walk by and think thank God I'm not in there but am heading to the tennis court, instead.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
my moose, joe
some people feel a strong connection to loved ones who have left this life. they dream about the loved one, they may feel messages coming through subconsciously, or they may sense their loved one's presence, either just surrounding them, or in some element of the natural world or some other living being.
I'm reading a book set in China during the cultural revolution of the mid twentieth century, in which a chicken wanders into a Chinese widow's home, immediately convincing the woman that it is really her husband, returning to her. she grooms the chicken, cares for it, engages in conversation with it, and is devastated when it disappears (and unbeknownst to her, gratefully, ends up in someone else's cooking pot).
my son jake died three months before his 19th birthday. on his birthday that year, a reasonably warm and wintry april 20th, I rode my bike up emigration, down to the reservoir, around the locked yellow gate and up toward big mountain as far as the road would allow. snow hunched deep and heavy in the shaded stretches as the elevation increased, and I was finally thwarted about halfway to the top. I paused and had a chat with his spirit, spread a few of his ashes, and created a new touchstone, a place of memory and meaning, by the side of the road and the spread of the hill.
on my way home from that ride I saw a moose, and immediately I thought of little joe, jake's twin.
I do not know why.
I sensed a message as well, one of comfort and confirmation, letting me know that it was okay to feel alone as I did, that those feelings were part of the natural rhythm of existence, and that they were truly nothing more than an illusion, anyway.
but now, when I see a moose anywhere within that area, I connect it with little joe and a message from what is most easily called the other side of the veil.
perhaps I make up these messages, or perhaps they are placed within my awareness only through a divine will.
I can't know.
yesterday, little joe visited again, strutting right in front of me, big and bold and fully in his young manhood. I had just left the top of emigration, heading down and toward home, when I rounded the second curve and saw a huge beast walking across the road. I braked 60 feet away, and the distance kept closing as he moved regally across the asphalt toward the hill on the right. at 30 feet he paused, and I decided I would be best off to simply stop, as he had to be a good 8 times bigger than me.
not a car around, not even another cyclist, it was just the two of us sharing this space.
I crept a little closer as he turned his head from side to side and then back to the hill in front of him and began his plodding, head thrusting climb up the hill. bushes bent for him, the ground held firm under his majestic hooves. his antlers were slender and spiky and rounded, and his entire body shouted power, ownership, possession. as he moved up the hillside I started to lose sight of him; he paused again near the top and I saw him through a screen of tall golden grass and shrub, then lost him over the ridge.
the grin didn't leave my face for ten miles, and still hasn't left my heart.
was it little joe? it doesn't matter. it's always little joe to me, and the message is always one of peace and certainty. of faith and patience. of being on the right track, of perseverance, of moving along, pausing, and moving along again.
I'm reading a book set in China during the cultural revolution of the mid twentieth century, in which a chicken wanders into a Chinese widow's home, immediately convincing the woman that it is really her husband, returning to her. she grooms the chicken, cares for it, engages in conversation with it, and is devastated when it disappears (and unbeknownst to her, gratefully, ends up in someone else's cooking pot).
my son jake died three months before his 19th birthday. on his birthday that year, a reasonably warm and wintry april 20th, I rode my bike up emigration, down to the reservoir, around the locked yellow gate and up toward big mountain as far as the road would allow. snow hunched deep and heavy in the shaded stretches as the elevation increased, and I was finally thwarted about halfway to the top. I paused and had a chat with his spirit, spread a few of his ashes, and created a new touchstone, a place of memory and meaning, by the side of the road and the spread of the hill.
on my way home from that ride I saw a moose, and immediately I thought of little joe, jake's twin.
I do not know why.
I sensed a message as well, one of comfort and confirmation, letting me know that it was okay to feel alone as I did, that those feelings were part of the natural rhythm of existence, and that they were truly nothing more than an illusion, anyway.
but now, when I see a moose anywhere within that area, I connect it with little joe and a message from what is most easily called the other side of the veil.
perhaps I make up these messages, or perhaps they are placed within my awareness only through a divine will.
I can't know.
yesterday, little joe visited again, strutting right in front of me, big and bold and fully in his young manhood. I had just left the top of emigration, heading down and toward home, when I rounded the second curve and saw a huge beast walking across the road. I braked 60 feet away, and the distance kept closing as he moved regally across the asphalt toward the hill on the right. at 30 feet he paused, and I decided I would be best off to simply stop, as he had to be a good 8 times bigger than me.
not a car around, not even another cyclist, it was just the two of us sharing this space.
I crept a little closer as he turned his head from side to side and then back to the hill in front of him and began his plodding, head thrusting climb up the hill. bushes bent for him, the ground held firm under his majestic hooves. his antlers were slender and spiky and rounded, and his entire body shouted power, ownership, possession. as he moved up the hillside I started to lose sight of him; he paused again near the top and I saw him through a screen of tall golden grass and shrub, then lost him over the ridge.
the grin didn't leave my face for ten miles, and still hasn't left my heart.
was it little joe? it doesn't matter. it's always little joe to me, and the message is always one of peace and certainty. of faith and patience. of being on the right track, of perseverance, of moving along, pausing, and moving along again.
Monday, October 31, 2011
a reminder about ants and grasshoppers
I realize that some of you may think that I live a life of ease, picking and choosing my preferred ride times, never having to work, just floating with the sunny skies and perfect air.
I do live an amazingly beautiful life, but that is due, in part, to the fact that I am an ant.
long ago, aesop told a tale of a happy, songful grasshopper who spent his summer singing and enjoying the warm weather, and of an ant who spent his summer storing food for the winter. the grasshopper played, the ant worked. and lo, come winter, the grasshopper had nothing to eat, no stores to use, nothing to get him through the harsh and difficult season.
the ant, meanwhile, had set aside plenty to see him through, as he had worked all summer, planning for his future.
I tend to be an ant.
I am always doing today what might not need to be done until tomorrow. I like to be prepared; I like to be ahead of the game.
I like to fill my shelves with inventory long before the orders come.
so I work early in the morning and late at night and whenever my ant-ness makes me.
and then if the sun breaks out and warms the air I can hop on my bike and go enjoy it, riding, singing, playing in our big, beautiful world.
come to think of it,
perhaps I'm really a hybrid. an anthopper. a grant.
a happy, productive, farsighted, singing grant.
so there, aesop.
I do live an amazingly beautiful life, but that is due, in part, to the fact that I am an ant.
long ago, aesop told a tale of a happy, songful grasshopper who spent his summer singing and enjoying the warm weather, and of an ant who spent his summer storing food for the winter. the grasshopper played, the ant worked. and lo, come winter, the grasshopper had nothing to eat, no stores to use, nothing to get him through the harsh and difficult season.
the ant, meanwhile, had set aside plenty to see him through, as he had worked all summer, planning for his future.
I tend to be an ant.
I am always doing today what might not need to be done until tomorrow. I like to be prepared; I like to be ahead of the game.
I like to fill my shelves with inventory long before the orders come.
so I work early in the morning and late at night and whenever my ant-ness makes me.
and then if the sun breaks out and warms the air I can hop on my bike and go enjoy it, riding, singing, playing in our big, beautiful world.
come to think of it,
perhaps I'm really a hybrid. an anthopper. a grant.
a happy, productive, farsighted, singing grant.
so there, aesop.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
hold on loosely
I have an ipod nano that my family gave me for Christmas years ago. I'm not too much of a geek, nor do I have too much music, so it suits me just fine. but it has this issue, which it seems to have always had: it doesn't always respond when I hold the "turn off" button. I usually have to try more than once, and I press and press, and often become frustrated by the difficulty of the process. geez, I just want to turn the darn thing off! I've considered just getting a new one, thinking there's just some little flaw with that button that's not even a button, just a spot on the little white wheel.
it's old, I've told myself, so I shouldn't expect it to work perfectly.
well, that's how it's been, up until about two weeks ago.
at that magical time, I discovered that when I just lightly tapped the "turn off" button-that's-not-a-button, it turned right off.
and every time since, I've turned it off easily by just tapping that little button.
the roads I ride aren't always coated with smooth asphalt.
often it's chip seal, or worn chip seal (which is better than new), or some patched mess of various kinds of road surfacing. occasionally I cross cattle guards or railroad tracks. and there are always cracks, potholes, uneven surfaces, and what some call "road furniture," debris that could knock you over if it got you before you saw it.
I've learned, over time, that there's a point of perfect tension in my handlebar grip, a place where I'm holding on well enough, yet allowing space and opportunity for my bike to show me where it wants to go. too tight, and I throttle its efforts to move smoothly over bumps and holes, and too loose, I risk letting it get sucked into gouges and ridges and toss me over the handlebars.
a natural tendency---as I demonstrated with my ipod---is to try too hard, to press to firmly, to hold on with a near death grip.
my car is a wiggly little thing, and I've learned this with when moving over the metal bridge expansion grooves on a curve: when I grip the steering wheel too tightly, my car is thrown a bit with each one. when I find that perfect balance of tension, the car moves through them more smoothly. I give it a little space to do its job, while still performing my own.
38 special is one of those american rock bands that had a handful of hits back in the '80s, and is still plugging along. their "hold on loosely" was a number one hit back in 1981 (!) and I think of that title frequently as I navigate through life, bike rides, car rides, ipod use.
as I began to write this today I pulled up the complete lyrics to the song, and was amazed by how well these words convey the truth of all sorts of relationships. and although the rhyme itself leaves something to be desired, this couplet sums it up beautifully:
your baby needs someone to believe in
and a whole lot of space to breathe in
it's old, I've told myself, so I shouldn't expect it to work perfectly.
well, that's how it's been, up until about two weeks ago.
at that magical time, I discovered that when I just lightly tapped the "turn off" button-that's-not-a-button, it turned right off.
and every time since, I've turned it off easily by just tapping that little button.
the roads I ride aren't always coated with smooth asphalt.
often it's chip seal, or worn chip seal (which is better than new), or some patched mess of various kinds of road surfacing. occasionally I cross cattle guards or railroad tracks. and there are always cracks, potholes, uneven surfaces, and what some call "road furniture," debris that could knock you over if it got you before you saw it.
I've learned, over time, that there's a point of perfect tension in my handlebar grip, a place where I'm holding on well enough, yet allowing space and opportunity for my bike to show me where it wants to go. too tight, and I throttle its efforts to move smoothly over bumps and holes, and too loose, I risk letting it get sucked into gouges and ridges and toss me over the handlebars.
a natural tendency---as I demonstrated with my ipod---is to try too hard, to press to firmly, to hold on with a near death grip.
my car is a wiggly little thing, and I've learned this with when moving over the metal bridge expansion grooves on a curve: when I grip the steering wheel too tightly, my car is thrown a bit with each one. when I find that perfect balance of tension, the car moves through them more smoothly. I give it a little space to do its job, while still performing my own.
38 special is one of those american rock bands that had a handful of hits back in the '80s, and is still plugging along. their "hold on loosely" was a number one hit back in 1981 (!) and I think of that title frequently as I navigate through life, bike rides, car rides, ipod use.
as I began to write this today I pulled up the complete lyrics to the song, and was amazed by how well these words convey the truth of all sorts of relationships. and although the rhyme itself leaves something to be desired, this couplet sums it up beautifully:
your baby needs someone to believe in
and a whole lot of space to breathe in
Thursday, October 27, 2011
mali rising
I could be approaching the end of my life.
I could be experiencing my last year, everything winding down, the end terribly in sight. this could be it for me, and for all of my peers as well.
many of my friends, a good portion of my biking buddies, my brother and his wife, definitely my mom, her husband, my dads, their partners . . .
were we living in Mali, we would likely all be dead or rapidly approaching death.
the average life expectancy for males in Mali is 48, and for females is 49.
a while back I attended a fundraiser for an organization called Mali Rising.
this group, run by a man named Yeah Samake, focuses on increasing education for the children of their nation. they use funds to build schools, to train teachers, to expand educational opportunities for all children, especially girls. in many third world countries females come second to males when educational options are limited: Mali Rising is one of many organizations which are trying to change this practice.
Mali is a land-locked nation in northwestern africa, with the following statistics:
Population: 13 million
Capital: Bamako
Area: 1.25 million sq km (482,077 sq miles)
Major languages: French, Bambara
Main exports: Cotton, gold, livestock
Annual per capita income: US $500
Economic base: Agriculture and fishing (80%), Industry and service (20%)
everything about me---from my home ownership to cycling to my graduate degree to the ease of my life---would not be, had I been born to a typical family in Mali.
I often express the fact that I'm glad I'm not in charge of the world, for I don't know what I'd do. I don't know how I'd solve its problems, structure its government, design its roads (except they'd all be fresh, smooth asphalt, of course). I am overwhelmed by the enormity of challenges presented, and although I excel at seeing the Big Picture, I am not always so good at envisioning solutions, let alone implementing them.
there is a line from a beatles song, we all want to change the world.
well, I would like to change the world.
I'd like the people of Mali to live longer, lose fewer children to preventable childhood diseases, be less poverty-stricken, have access to more support/food/clean water/job opportunities/education.
and bicycles.
so that they all could, at least a half dozen times, feel the joy of riding a bike in the early morning when the world is fresh and new, and everything is possible.
I could be experiencing my last year, everything winding down, the end terribly in sight. this could be it for me, and for all of my peers as well.
many of my friends, a good portion of my biking buddies, my brother and his wife, definitely my mom, her husband, my dads, their partners . . .
were we living in Mali, we would likely all be dead or rapidly approaching death.
the average life expectancy for males in Mali is 48, and for females is 49.
a while back I attended a fundraiser for an organization called Mali Rising.
this group, run by a man named Yeah Samake, focuses on increasing education for the children of their nation. they use funds to build schools, to train teachers, to expand educational opportunities for all children, especially girls. in many third world countries females come second to males when educational options are limited: Mali Rising is one of many organizations which are trying to change this practice.
Mali is a land-locked nation in northwestern africa, with the following statistics:
Population: 13 million
Capital: Bamako
Area: 1.25 million sq km (482,077 sq miles)
Major languages: French, Bambara
Main exports: Cotton, gold, livestock
Annual per capita income: US $500
Economic base: Agriculture and fishing (80%), Industry and service (20%)
everything about me---from my home ownership to cycling to my graduate degree to the ease of my life---would not be, had I been born to a typical family in Mali.
I often express the fact that I'm glad I'm not in charge of the world, for I don't know what I'd do. I don't know how I'd solve its problems, structure its government, design its roads (except they'd all be fresh, smooth asphalt, of course). I am overwhelmed by the enormity of challenges presented, and although I excel at seeing the Big Picture, I am not always so good at envisioning solutions, let alone implementing them.
there is a line from a beatles song, we all want to change the world.
well, I would like to change the world.
I'd like the people of Mali to live longer, lose fewer children to preventable childhood diseases, be less poverty-stricken, have access to more support/food/clean water/job opportunities/education.
and bicycles.
so that they all could, at least a half dozen times, feel the joy of riding a bike in the early morning when the world is fresh and new, and everything is possible.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
other
may we never stop learning, may our curiosity never be sated, may we always seek new knowledge and understanding. may we always be alert, aware, open, observant, inquisitive, and full of faith that whatever enters our life is part of an opportunity to deepen ourselves and increase our wisdom.
the following are not my words, but those of thomas moore. I think I'll adopt them, however, for I find them quite adaptable to bike rides, daily movement, relationships, and most every aspect of life:
the purpose of any meaningful journey is to become other than what we were.
forward ho.
the following are not my words, but those of thomas moore. I think I'll adopt them, however, for I find them quite adaptable to bike rides, daily movement, relationships, and most every aspect of life:
the purpose of any meaningful journey is to become other than what we were.
forward ho.
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