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.