Flying

The sensation of riding a motorcycle. It’s not so much the sitting atop and riding, but being a part of a machine.  Even more than that still, of being apart FROM the machine, becoming completely unaware that a motorcycle is there while you are being ferried, borne of a perfect communion of like needs, inputs, understanding and respectfulness.  You’re not sitting upon this thing, it is not working below you as a thing, but instead you disappear, the motorcycle disappears and what is left is only motion.  Simple sensation.  Thought: action.  Sense: reaction.  Desire and consent.  Sights, sounds, smells become everything, this everything depends on your being aware of it and yet you don’t think of it.  You’re not creating it, but reacting to it.  You’re a part of it, you don’t wait for it, you live in it.

That is the essence of this that I would call flying.  I think, I go.  I look, I turn.  I hunger for the roar of power and I’ve unconsciously twisted, I’ve asked and I’ve received, not with thought but with desire.  I soar with the momentum I’ve produced.  I then have the equal ability to land.  I use it often with force of effort of the wind under the wings, backdraft creating the friction and feel the slowing then the collection back to the start.  I fold the wings in, sit still for a few minutes and take off again. 

I have embraced this basic understanding of why I do what I do, for those glimpses of nirvana, because to be sure these perfect moments don’t happen all the time.  In fact, they are the exception, but also the reason and inspiration of why I ride.  Now I have extended it to a world I’ve never stepped into until now.  To fly with another.  To liken it to nothing short of two eagles soaring for the shear joy of it. Not vying for the hunt, nor the mate, nor the territory. Or perhaps indeed all of those.  But most simply because they can.  Because each possesses the gift of flight, ability, cooperation, and respectfulness allowing such an encounter.  The trust of synchronicity and togetherness.  You move, I move. You begin, I complete. You lead, I follow as if you’ve taken the bait and run, I chase.  I take it from you to start the game again. You breathe, I breathe. Trust pure and simple.  Recognition, respect, playfulness, protectiveness.  Then we rest by falling into step the comfortable and familiar formation, the rhythm of an unhurried dance, a walk through the wine country, at any given time a hairs breath away from being too close and respecting the risk it symbolizes .  Never holding back or pushing ahead with defiance but rather in a reverent challenge.  Enveloped in the comfort of nearness at speed.  And the speed is palpable and real, and requires a readiness to react brought on by something as small as a lifted heel, an inclination of posture or a side-long look.  As I look away from you now I can’t help but remember how the rest of the world was looking on, seeing it, hearing it, watching it.  Wishing it were they, living the moment on a wing and a prayer, wanting to be us, wanting what we are, what we have.  The world sits as an audience and we are the show, acting it out but not in control of it, as this one was scripted in the wind. That one perfect moment.

When a bell rings, an angel....

When mom was sick, I remember the exact phone call when I said "I'll be there".  Anticipating her resistance, I assured her it was for nothing more than having another body in the house, a voice down the hall in the night if she woke with the heebie jeebies.  Someone to go for day trips with if she was feeling pert, or to do the driving for her if she wasn't feeling up to the task.  To my amazement and relief she said yes.  I would have gone anyway no matter what the answer.  So often as was the case, the conversation down the hall at bedtime was "good night MaryEllen", good night JohnBoy".  And we'd snicker and be quiet for a few minutes.  Then I'd ask how are you feeling about getting through this night and she'd say she was scared.  And I'd say I know, that's why I'm here.  And she'd say I know.  When her voice became weaker and she became weaker, she wanted to know that she could muster up help in a hurry, so we decided on a bell.  It wasn't necessary because I would hear her waken and fuss and I'd be on the edge of my bed ready to leap.  But if she didn't ask for the help, I usually wouldn't offer, it was a family thing about giving people their space and respect and dignity.  But sometimes I would wake to the sounds of her retching and I'd chastise myself for not leaping sooner.  But the bell was as much to make a joke of the need as the need itself, to have a beautiful silver tea bell to tinkle for her staff to be at her beck and call.  She hated that she would need the help, but enjoyed the image of the Southern Belle and her silver bell.  So the search was on for the perfect bell, and this small gold mining town that she lived in was going to offer no such thing.  So a trip to the local hardware store was the next best thing.  We walked the aisles together and looked.  Down the aisle with door bells we found what would be useful.  Discovering a wireless battery operated version was just the ticket.  The box with a large push button would live by the couch with mom, and the box with the digital bell sound in it would be carried around from room to room with me.  It was not necessary of course because it was a small mobile home that she was living in at the end, and the "bing bong" was loud enough to hear from any room.  In fact it was loud enough to hear from clear outside.  But it made mom feel better to know that it was near me and I couldn't miss it.  We agreed it was only to be used when there was real need and to be heeded quickly.  We tested it, it sounded just fine.  We went to different rooms and tested it, and it was loud and clear.  Settling down to rest after our trip to town and experimenting, we both closed our eyes for a little while.  I peeked an eye open and saw mom had dozed off, so I quietly rose and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom.  The door wasn't all the way shut before I heard "bing bong" and I came rushing out, tripping over my half down pants.  What is it?   Oh!  I just wanted to see how well it was going to work, she said, feigning innocence but with the most impish gleam hidden in the crinkle of her eye. 

We teased each with the bing bong through the coming days, and we used it late in the night for real emergencies.  I still have the bell, I kept it, tucked away in a box in storage.  Periodically I'll push the button to hear the muffled bing bong come up from the bottom of the box just to remember.

Capturing the Good Ol' Days

When we were being photographed while growing up, it was a big deal.  Cameras were a luxury, film and developing were expensive, over exposure was an ever present danger if the film was exposed to light, and at the click of the shutter you had no idea how the picture was going to look.  If you made a weird face, looked fat or put your thumb over the view finder, all of those were the surprise you got when picking up the envelope from FotoMat.  Yet going through a box of old photos this evening, scanning them into a digitized world with AutoCorrect and PhotoShop, it was "real" ones that mean the most.  The mistakes.  The real life being captured.  I think I'll just save "as is". 

Look what I learned

I was thinking about a college class I took when I learned to speak publicly for the first time. I know it was required in earlier schooling too, but I would hardly call what I did then "learning", unless the lesson was how to blush down to your neck, stammer, have stomach cramps and wet your pants. What struck me was how easy it became when I perceived it not as a "report" or a "speech", but to simply tell a group about something you already know. This would be more of a presentation, but it taught us, well me, how to speak up, use visual aids, and finish with Q and A. My breakthrough speech was "how to saddle a horse". With very little preparation we were to stand up and explain our "expertise". I thought people would be bored with what I thought was a simple task, but it turned out, because I knew something that others didn't know yet, I could use big words like pommel and latigo to establish legitimacy and to hold their attention, used a step by step explanation because, after all, you have to do the saddling in a precise order unless you want to be kicked or subsequently fall off, and when it was done does anyone have any questions and sure enough they did! I was empowered! I learned the lesson of public speaking again out of college and worked for a temp agency that put me on with ATT wireless in the early days of cellular phones. I found while selling a contract and a 'free' phone, that what I was simply doing was explaining something to them that they didn't already know, and when they felt like they were empowered with the knowledge, they were ready to sign up. The simpler and clearer I could make it, using the big words but also guiding them to know and use them too, the faster the sale. And the smoother the speech goes. And the more people learn.

Success Defined

To laugh often and love much;

to win the respect of intelligent people

and the affection of children;

to earn the appreciation of honest critics

and to endure the betrayal of false friends;

to appreciate beauty;

to find the best in others;

to leave the world a bit better,

whether by a healthy child,

a garden path

or a redeemed social condition;

to know even one life

has breathed easier because of you


Thanks and thoughts go out to the Ray and Hall families who have lost a loved one, Becky Hall, to cancer at 63. I knew her when she was young and I was younger, but I felt I knew her so much more after attending her funeral, by all those that stood and spoke of her from so many facets of her life. I couldn't help but peek into my own passing and envision who might be there and what they might say about me.  I would be honored to be able to say that I checked off this list of success without hesitation. 

Happy Non Traditional New Year!

It feels like New Years Day because of the Rose Parade this morning, but this is Monday the 2nd. I'm lukewarm about the tradition of "never on Sunday" for the parade because I am a staunch believer in keeping on traditions for the sake of doing so, but feeling inconvenienced and "off" because of it. I have similar feelings about Daylight Savings time and Leap Year. The year has begun either way, with or without my approval.

A New Years Toast, "Champagne Jam", in honor of my sis Maggie who was Atlanta Rhythm Section's biggest fan. Happy New Year sis, wherever you are!

For the ages

You aren't just the age you are, you are all the ages you ever have been.

- Kenneth Koch

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