06 November, 2017

My Own Near Miss

I wrote this a while ago, but never shared it on social media. I'm not sure anyone read it, other than my husband and one friend I allowed to see it. This piece still feels big and scary, and I even know people out there won't like it. I may lose friends because of my stance. My family disagree with my feelings, even. I have knots in my stomach as I think about sharing this. But I have knots in my stomach when I send my child to school, when I look at the news, when I think about perpetuating a culture that is literally becoming centered around death. I'm tired of being afraid of what people will think if I speak out. The time has come to raise my voice, even if people revile me for it. I'd rather swallow down the terror that churns in my gut about the words that follow and how people will react than to continue to choke on daily fear. If enough of us speak out, en masse, eventually, something will happen.

If there's anything I have learned through the years, it's that maybe I don't need people to like me. Being hard to like is my cross to bear. 

I read an opinion piece tonight that addressed the author's thoughts about what I have come to think of as collateral damage in relation to the Second Amendment. Her words about near misses rang true to me. Let me tell you a story.

A few years ago, we had a border collie named Barley. You guys probably remember him. He came to our house a cute, fluffy puppy, who quickly grew into a wiry, large dog that needed to be walked, and walked, and walked, and walked. Then walked even more. 

Barley and I were strolling through our neighborhood one balmy early summer night, when it was humid and there was a twinge of chill. I still remember the clothes I wore, and the quality of light under the street lamps as we made our way toward the cul de sac that bookended our countryside subdivision. A frog leapt across the pavement, and Barley went wild, trying to give chase, and I struggled to keep him bridled in under my control. He calmed, and we walked on, and in the distance, I heard something, some grumpy grumbling. 

We kept walking, because this canine couldn't continue his night without this walk. And perhaps something in me was driven by some strange curiosity akin to driving through a neighborhood and glancing into the windows to have a glimpse of the lives inside, that spurred me on. Mostly, I was just walking in my neighborhood, like anyone would.

Barley and I neared the house at the mouth of the cul de sac, and suddenly I saw a bright flash of light and heard a bang, sensed something pop into the ground not that far from where I was. I knew the sound. I had grown up around firearms. Still, the connection didn't formalize itself and coagulate to make sense until the second shot was fired. Something primal inside my brain clicked together. Barley and I sprinted the block home, and I burst through the front door and slid down the wall, my face covered in tears.

That neighbor spent the night in jail. The story I heard, all here say, was one of alcohol-fueled domestic conflict. I don't know the whole story, but I can tell you a neighborhood is no place for fool-hardy abuse of a firearm.

This story, that night, changed my views. I was close to danger, as an innocent bystander. And what about his wife? While I respect the right to bear reasonable firearms, I think ownership rights desperately need to be addressed more fully, to create a more restrictive atmosphere. I feel certain the violator was given a slap on the wrist and got to go back home, and still has full access to whatever weaponry he wants. What if he had shot me that night, unintentionally or not? What if he had shot his wife or fired into the house across the road, where our friends lived? I've lived in the country for a huge portion of my life, and am fully aware of the need for firearms for hunting, and even self protection. I grew up at match shoots. I don't choose to do any of these things myself, however I understand this provision and know it needs to be protected.

I don't have any solutions. I am not a legislator. It is not my job to find solutions, merely to present problems and hope someone qualified can provide an answer. It's time for people to die to self a little bit, so that others may continue to live. I tire of collateral damage and the assertion that civilian death is the price of freedom to die. It's an archaic and ill-formed argument. 

12 September, 2017

A Legacy Worth Sharing

After a long fight with congestive heart failure, we lost my grandfather today. It is hard to imagine a world without him. He taught me so many valuable lessons about life. I learned from him that quiet kindness was the sort of legacy we should leave behind in this life. That risks are worth taking, especially if there is fun to be had, or if life or love are at stake. I watched him make a difference in his community. He never took himself too seriously, but was serious about caring for others, especially his family.

He swung me too high on the porch swing, singing "Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot" to me all the while. A veteran, he had been to Korea, and traveled through Japan. His stories had me hanging on every word. His mother is my namesake. A couple of years ago, he grew the largest watermelon I've ever seen, and when I was a child we would sit on the picnic table beneath a shady oak tree on stifling summer afternoons, eating melons and spitting seeds as afternoon storms would roll in, and he would tell me the angels were bowling. His hands made lovely things, chairs and cleared valleys and bows and arrows and kites and fishing poles, and they showed love and compassion, each thing a fabric square providing texture to the crazy quilt of my childhood. It was all these things, and a million others, peppermint in a pocket, a night spent sleeping in a room built just for me in a house hewn from his hands and time and love, an arm around my shoulder, eyes that always managed to see the absolute best in me.

These are all just snapshots, microcosmic pieces of a macrocosm of a life that I enjoyed the chance to be part of. They can never convey everything about this man, the love he poured into me, the full spectrum of who he was and the value he held in the hearts of those who knew him. I can offer these relics, though, placed in the glass case museum of my mind, and displayed for you here, to hopefully share in the joy that was knowing him.

22 August, 2017

An Eclipse

Yesterday's experience, heart open, staring up into the sky through a filter designed to keep my eyes safe from radiation, bound on both sides by the people I love most in this world, is an artifact I want to tuck away into my heart for forever. The sky was awe-inspiring, as well as the show it put on down here on earth, where we tiny, solitary humans found ourselves gathered together to see a celestial display like few of us have ever viewed before, a shared mass, a momentary acceptance of the magnificence of our universe.

I am able to fully remember and appreciate those moments, that sweet two minutes and twenty-nine seconds because I made the choice to be completely present. No phone, off the grid, limited communication thanks to so many factors, including a glorious lack of coverage, and a phone that was giving up the energy ghost. But I didn't miss anything. I found everything.

What did our ancestors do before the were attached by the thumb and fore to a world trapped in a tiny box? Shit, what did I do before that? I was a reasonable human who knew how to talk to the people around me. Don't get me wrong... I'm not hating on my iPhone. Or your Droid.

But yesterday left me hungry for more. More of the authentic. More of the genuine. More moments disengaged from technology. More moments engaged with the ones I love. More moments in the woods, in a hammock, playing a ridiculous game of twenty questions with a slightly ailing six and a half year old and an indulgent thirty-five year old who plays silly games with me when I really want to. I want more real, tangible moments to be stowed away in a journal, written away in the filing cabinet of my mind, knowing these are the moments that are precious and last. I want more present, more real, more now. I want more moments of sunlight that bounce out of me like crazy beams of joy, like the corona yesterday. I don't think I could have experienced what I did yesterday, and to have not been changed by it.

05 July, 2017

Annual Assessment of TdF Scandal

It seems the time has come for my annual assessment of some TdF scandal... except this time, the ruffled feathers are from riders I adore. Mark Cavendish was my first cycling crush, discovered whilst sitting on the bachelor couch with a boppy pillow around my waist as I nursed our nugget. Peter Sagan burst onto the scene that same year (I'm pretty sure... forgive me, because that year is blurry), capturing hearts and minds with his fresh, fun approach to the world of professional cycling. One of my favorite earlier Sagan moments was the video in which he rode his bike onto his car to fasten it into the tray on his roof rack. And now my friends and I swoon at the mention of his name, which conjures up mental images of quads, messy hair, and delicious reckless silliness.

I have to ask, though, if The Elbow Heard Round the World had belonged to someone else in this current race environment, with the commissaires under so much pressure from a large swath of both the peloton and the public at large to improve safety in the final kilometers of the races... would the outcry be the same? Sagan is pro cycling's renaissance man: funny, personable, consummately kind. The Sagan love is universal... even the guys at the wiley and notoriously anti-roadie DrunkCyclist are on board... but are we looking through rose colored glasses at the situation? The complete Tour DQ is a heavy, stiff penalty, I agree. Probably too stiff. Would the action by the officials have elicited the same response if the roles had been reversed?

I know about Cav's history, and that he has been forgiven of more, but yesterday is not five years ago even. On the other hand, the precedence for dismissal from the Tour is hard to ignore. I just wish it had been any other two riders. The Tour lost two of its best-known riders in a single, fell swoop.

For more of what I've failed to say well, read William Fotheringham's objective piece featured in The Guardian. His words urged me to spill out my own this morning, no matter how outside the mainstream they might be.

Speedy healing to Cav, and hopes for a killer Vuelta for Peto, if that's what he chooses to do next.

22 March, 2017

Who We Are

Today is my birthday. I say that, not to receive more birthday love, but for perspective. Our birthday, and the love we receive on that day, are important to our stories. I like to think of my birthday as a day to spend time thinking about who I am, the space I've created for myself in the world, the support of others that has helped me carve out my own sculpture in the land and time I've been given.

Who am I? What do I do? What's my siren song? It's good to look back 365 days, one voyage of the earth around the sun, and see where I was. I won't give you my sob story; you've heard it all before. But I've been set adrift in a way, and I realize that isn't a bad thing. I've been "let go" by the bike, and that's fine. My peace has been spoken on that, but Chris Riordan says it all very well in his piece on Cycling Tips. My situation has forced me to explore further into the wilds of my heart and soul as I gently rebuild my relationship with cycling.

I wish we could hang onto the love-filled-ness of our birthdays, and let it fuel us on the day we simply need more from life. Bottle up those kind words, and play them back as our siren song, the thing that guides us through our dark moments to remind us our glasses are so, so full, and that wherever we wander, it always calls us back, simply, to ourselves. Because who we are, who we will become, is all that matters. Who we are, and who we have the potential to become, that's enough. Be bold, be awesome, be you. Let love be your guiding light and siren song as you carve out your story in relief.

And thanks for your support, and all of your birthday wishes!

06 March, 2017

A Love Note to Now, and an Adieu to Yesterday

You’re like a dog at the dump, baby—you’re just lickin’ at an empty tin can, trying to get more nutrition out of it. And if you’re not careful, that can’s gonna get stuck on your snout forever and make your life miserable. So drop it.” 
“But I love him.”
"So love him.”
 “But I miss him.”
 “So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it... But here’s what you gotta understand, Groceries. If you clear out all that space in your mind that you’re using right now to obsess about this guy, you’ll have a vacuum there, an open spot—a doorway. And guess what the universe will do with that doorway? It will rush in—God will rush in—and fill you with more love than you ever dreamed. So stop using David to block that door. Let it go.”
 “But I wish me and David could—” He cuts me off. “See, now that’s your problem. You’re wishin’ too much, baby. You gotta stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone oughtta be.”

Dialogue between Liz and her friend, David from Texas, in Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love

There's something we lovely, marvelous humans suck at, terribly. Our humanity is sealed up in an unhappiness founded in our inability to simply let go, and move on. We're afraid to go ahead, to let ourselves, our personality, our identity evolve and grow.

We're often left wondering, wishing.

I love the bike. I miss the bike. I miss the pride I felt after completely exhausting myself while being the only girl to hang on with a bunch of boys. I long for the pleasure of watching the miles pile up, time spent in sweet pleasure, spinning up my life, pedal stroke by pedal stroke. But listen... the bike and I were in a bad romance last year. And I know that now.
Dear Gaga: I get it.

I miss it. But I also know that's not where I am right now. My location is someplace else, off the Island of Misfit Kids on Bikes, of the grid that I've come to know as my life. I've spent so much time in the past twelve months, wearing my wishbone where my backbone belongs, wishing I was still fast, still wanting to fight whatever the hell actually even happened. But isn't that part of my problem anyway? Chasing something, instead of letting it organically happen?

I'm still spending time on the bike here and there. But I don't know if I can ever have that level of dedication again. To the bike, or to anything else, other than the people I love, for that matter.

I still love it. I miss it. And that is fine. Those feelings are fine... they don't have to be wrapped up in this angsty, overwhelming, painful longing. I want to enjoy where I am. It's beautiful. It's where I do things like this.




We can't cling to what we've always done, especially as our awareness grows. That goes for our personal lives, and the world around us. Tradition does not inherently make anything right. We have to let ourselves grow. We have to stop stuffing ourselves into whatever doesn't fit us anymore, to let our hearts, minds, and (oy vey) sometimes even our bodies, expand, evolve, and change, hopefully for the better.

Open the door. Open the door to growth, to improvement. Let your feelings flow and be felt, but don't allow them to keep you where you are, wishing for something that isn't yours any longer.




25 January, 2017

A Dream and a Crash

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
                    Dylan Thomas

Last night, I dreamed Paul and I were a captive audience on a dangerous jeep ride on what barely constituted a trail on a cliff side, in an environment that vaguely resembled Paint Rock Valley. There was no one around for miles but us, the driver of the jeep, and our fellow passengers. In my heart, I knew we wouldn't make it to our dinner destination. The driver (a friend in my dream) recklessly tore through the gravel and small boulders. At one point there was a sink hole we barely managed to avoid, and we spun in circles and I saw my mortality inching closer and closer. I made a face, and the passenger in front of me looked at me as though she could hardly believe I didn't trust the driver. Suddenly, as we trundled up a steep hill strewn with small boulders, I felt the ground give way. I could feel that we no longer had purchase, and were in fact flying through the air. I reached over and grabbed Paul's arm and told him I loved him, then snapped awake.

In the past week, I've seen one meme from my conservative friends over and over, asking why we would want the plane our pilot is flying to crash. My answer is this:

The plane is on fire, and the pilot and half the passengers seem to be asleep, be ignoring the problem, or are distracted by the crying child next to them. I just want the plane to land safely so I can safely reach my destination, and they can reach theirs.

I won't go down quietly. I'm going to make a scene. I won't sit in my privileged seat belt and assume I'm going to be okay when every single drop down mask and floating seat cushion seems to be breaking under force. I may lose friends because of this. I will rage against the dying. I will rage against injustice.

These people, they will tell you they treasure the sanctity of life because they obsess over a single bit of legislation. But they don't. They will shamelessly rip away consumer protections that keep sick people under a doctor's care because the middle class complained about the cost of their insurance premiums, due to the fact that states wouldn't fully honor the system in place and forced insurance companies to deal with the fallout. They will take precious rights and resources from our children and their children, like clean air and water, stable growing climate, and stable social environment, to protect a past that never existed and to avoid changes that make them uncomfortable. We can't keep drinking from the fountain of youth they tell us they are bottling and selling. It is fake, it is dying, and it can only lead to catastrophe and death. If you are a Christian, you've been called to stewardship. Be a steward.

One generation will have to absorb responsibility. Let it be ours. Let us be truly the greatest generation of all.

I used to be like those other passengers who won't try to see, or who are so preoccupied with their own situation that they don't see what is really happening. Sometimes I miss that, I miss not having friends mad at me, people disappointed in me. But then one day I saw the fire growing and I couldn't ignore it any longer. I was quiet for a while, captivated and afraid of rocking the boat. But the fear has built up, and I can't be quiet any longer.

Do whatever you can to get the pilot and his crew to keep the plane in the air. Yell. Make people mad. Cause a scene. Be gentle and caring when you are able. Don't give up hope. Find something suited to your inclinations and talents and lend your efforts to it. Don't be overwhelmed. Be the helpers Fred Rogers said we would find when you don't see any. Tell people the facts, be ready with mental jiujitsu tactics, and be ready for anger when you don't follow the rules. Eat the fire in the plane if you can, keep it in your belly, and make it work for you.