Leaps

It is amazing what we learn about ourselves, about others, about the human experience, when we put our feet forward.

Of course you have heard the old “put you best foot forward” adage, but this is pedal discrimination in my opinion.

They work best together to take great leaps.

And once you have left the ground the magic starts to happen.

Straddling the learning curve at the place where knowing and not knowing meet is a very exciting place to be.

Such tension is the birthplace of creativity, that movement of the soul that reinforces the will to live and the will to meaning.

Of late, my life has felt so dreamlike. I am doing things and going places I never thought would ever actualize in my life, but here I am.

I am focused on the future, but absorbed in the present. I am the harvester of authentic and almost palpably intimate moments with those in my life: family, friends, strangers and the like. The stories of others and their raw emotions are my drug.

My soul can rest knowing that the seemingly futile hard work I put into building my character has paid off exponentially as I am blossoming into the woman I have always wanted to be.

I just never realized any of it until I took that leap…

                                                                                                      

Journeying

The grey clouds with their powerful display of ambiguous authority create a heavy ceiling bearing frigid gusts as I set off home. My hand shakes as I close the door behind me. I am tense and stiff, losing my balance as I walk but maintaining a level of control that keeps me in motion, surprisingly. Steadying myself with one hand on the fence, I recognize my nervousness and partially blame it on the sudden change of temperature, unwilling to trace the anxiety to its origin. As this awareness fumbles around my conscious mind it becomes all the more pronounced.

Bending over to free the lock from the chain, I move as if in slow motion. The chain is cold to the touch and the links jingle together as I uncoil it from the fence and gather it in one hand. The other hand uncaps the lock to expose the keyhole and I place the key inside, yet, all the while observing the nervous vibrations pulsing through my body. The lock is snuggly replaced around the seat shaft and I unassuredly raise my leg over the seat and set my foot back on the ground, a little steadier than before. Cautiously eyeing the street for any yellow orbs tearing in my direction, my bike and I cross the threshold of the driveway and I suddenly realize that my journey here was somewhat hazy and the thick twilight of the newly rested sun has made any landmarks unrecognizable.

I head into the direction from whence I came a short while earlier, but am overwhelmed by the indistinct buildings surrounding me, undifferentiating one street from another. Something pulls me to the left. I pause and peer at the street sign from under the bright, conical projection of the streetlight. The name sounds familiar, but the direction is unknown. My countenance hardens and I strain my neck to conduct a thorough reading of my environment; the brow furrows and eyes narrow their perspective.

Exhaling, I push myself erect on the seat and try to hold myself in such a way that will best block out the cold wind. My feet manage to stay strong and controlled in their circular movements as I ride to the next sign. The stop sign ceases the motion of my body and my thoughts and I am reminded of my disorientation. I recognize the name but am again troubled with which direction to choose. I feel I should take another left, but turn my head right and my body follows. The contoured ridges of the handle dig into my hands as I tighten my grip. I pass one unfamiliar street and then another, and peer down the corridor of houses to the small lighted frame on the horizon and smile.

“Ahh…Montreal road” I think to myself.

I execute a quick turn across the two lanes and begin to back track riding away from the misdirection of the previous moment. I am a little better oriented now, heading North East.

I ride back to the original intersection and pass through the quadrant surprised at my pleasant demeanour. The cold is no longer my enemy but a brother in arms as it cools the internal embers of a spirit screaming for equanimity. This ever-present nervousness is but a symptom of its dis-ease and the cold provides a striking contrast to its ferocity. The interaction of these extremes feeds my strength as it passes through the thin fabric of my clothing, pushing me forward. I knew as I left home that it was going to be a brisk evening, but had not anticipated this. My emotional volatility seems somewhat akin to the capriciousness of Canadian weather – all four seasons in one day.  

Another memorable street. I am now cognizant that I am headed in the right direction and aware of my good pace kept with cool clarity, yet that anxious presence has not subsided. I squeeze the handlebars and allow the strength to surge up my arms. My laboured breathing alarms me, as it always does. At the next sign I smile and turn right. My feet, head and heart are all leading me on the right path, so why this internal unrest? I still struggle for a deeper breath but feel poised atop this wonderful piece of technology that requires my energetic commitment to fulfill its purpose. Some of the tension in my shoulders releases and I sit more firmly in my seat; heavy, centred – grounded.

I feel the lump in my throat and knot in my side and slump with a deflating sigh. The same baggage from the same thoughts, feelings and behaviours.

            “…How does one rid oneself of self-destructive habits? Why do we hold onto pain like we own it?” I think to myself.

I let out a forceful sigh. As I feel the restricted movements of my lungs trapped inside their caged housing, I suddenly become aware of the immediate centre point of my body. This awareness forces my spine straight of its own volition and causes my feet dig into the peddles. I smile again. My body is no longer a separate entity from the road, from the cars, from the atmosphere. All are travelling together one moment at a time; the strength in my core, the combustion of the engine, the charge in the clouds are all in time. The click, click, click of the spinning tire is steady and I begin to tap my hand against the handlebar to the rhythm on the count of one and three, and think to myself…

“…Music is a marriage of time kept and timelessness felt when you are lost in a moment…”

Another recognizable name. I immediately turn right without skipping a beat. My fingers are beginning to chill but my heart is warm and I shut my mind to the cold.  My ability to navigate through this suburban traffic trap surprises me since I usually feel caught like a rat in a maze from the all the seemingly nonsensical twists and turns. A self-pride inflates me and I hold myself with a relaxed authority as if a touring motorcycle were instead beneath me. My skittishness to the diminished sunlight is overcome with a feeling of unity with my environment; sight is no longer the predominant sense leading me home. I feel as if I were tied to a tether wound through the streets that will lead me to my door. Looking to my right, my eye catches a tall, willowy tree in its early spring bloom and it feels as if an ethereal elixir capable of calming the quick pace of time was being secreted from its form. The road is quiet now, free of any movement but the rotation of the circles carrying me to my destination. As I enter the mouth of a path that winds through a small forest, I immediately feel the fresh, still air that envelops wooded land.

As I move through the cool blanket, threads dance across my face and kiss my lips as I inhale, mixing this cool, peaceful substance with the inferno burning inside. The air permeates my thoughts and the current pushes them out through the back of my skull. I sit higher still, lighter. I am out on the other side, entering more suburbs. I hesitate for a moment, turn right, and then swerve back again. I know where I need to go.

A little frightened by this confident and wordless voice inside, I feel myself retracting into my mind: the slate where fear is manifest. Another recognizable name; a sigh of relief and a smile for my stupid doubt. I round a corner and come to a catwalk between two houses, linking cul-de-sacs. The bricks are purposefully raised to slow bikers. I cautiously slow my speed and straighten my legs to rise from my seat.

“Is it ever bumpy!”

I allow a quiet giggle to escape as I near the end. The vibrations have made their way into every part of my body, leaving me to feel as though I were glowing as I return to the smooth pavement. My knuckles are chapped from gripping so tightly in the wind, but I do not care.

As I shift gears, a hidden passage of my mind is sparked to light. My gaze moves inward as I investigate the permeable darkness, judging its depths and intentions whilst continuing my forward physical motion. My legs are moving to the metronomical sound of the rotations, my lungs heaving with respiration, my eyes are open to the road ahead, but I lose conscious presence for a moment. My mind is instantaneously hard at work drawing up a storyboard of demonic fantasies. That recess of my mind that wants itself to be known, grabbing hold of my attention. My stomach tightens, my shoulders rise towards my ears and my back inclines with a slight curve.

I snap back to reality, shaking my head to re-gain visual focus. A hard and fast exhalation passes through my lips as I ponder the split second journey from whence I just came: the mines of fear; those deep, dark parts of ourselves where guilt, shame, disappointment and despair are extracted from the infinitely abundant quarries of self-loathing. I may have been swift to shut the door this time, but it always swings back leaving itself slightly ajar.

I think to myself, “Why does my mind naturally take me to such scary places? What is fuelling this tirade?”

As I ride on in reflection of this unnecessary self-immolation, my attention is again called to my internal distress. I feel as though there were a constant standoff being staged between the voices calling out from the quarries of fear, trying to pull me further and further down into a self-contemptuous disparity, and the song of my spirit, a melody of simple wisdom and inherent strength so profound yet so subtle. They are waging a territorial and cacophonous battle of words within, trying to determine who will be victorious, a battle in which my outward successes or failures will be determined.

A break in the cloud reveals a waxing moon and my eyes turn to reflect its light. I look down at my hands upon the handlebar and my arms that extend out of them to meet my shoulders. I feel the weight of my body and my muscles react to the impact of the uneven road, a welcome sensation from the weightlessness of pure thought. From the painted lines of the road that grabbed my attention, I look up to the street sign. Through my cheeky half smile I exhale and peddle harder. I am but a few streets from home now and aware of my diminished anxiety. Closing my eyes for a moment I turn my face toward the sky and a thought enters my head:

“We are not brought into this world to be afraid but to feel feelings and experience experiences. Uncertainty of what lies around the next corner may be the tightrope we tread upon, but trust in oneself is the safety net.”

I round the last corner at a sharp angle and my knee threatens to scrape the pavement. I pick up the pace and speed right past my door without a glance.

A Matter of Choice

We are faced with a decision as a species that humanity has never had to seriously concern itself with,
Until now.
We know not why we inhabit this mound of rock,
But we know we are programmed to keep it inhabited.
Or are we?
I am told that within the next few years,
The natural biological tendency written deep within my genetic code will send stronger and stronger signals to my male counterparts that I am ready to be drilled, filled and fertilized.
A rather unsettling prospect for me.
When our ancestors emerged from the primordial soup of originality,
I imagine the single-celled organisms that came to be lacked the complex neurological chemistry to foresee the evolutionary tangent nature would later produce: us.
We, however, happen to house this magical, chemical machinery within the confines of our being,
And, unlike those funky inhabitants of the womb of the Earth itself, we have foresight and the ability to choose to bare fruit.
No immaculate conceptions here, ladies and gentlemen.
So, what of this choice?
The thinker inside of me says:
Take stock of the billions of us roaming the very ground from which we were birthed,
Chipping away at what was once abundant,
Only to move ourselves closer to a self-inflicted apocalypse.
Taps will no longer run freely,
Fossil fuels will no longer be beneath our feet but amongst the gaseous realm of our atmosphere,
Fertile land will be barren and arid from chemical exposure and mass production.
And what about our superior Western culture which capitalizes on the docility of children,
Shaping their minds to be little consumers,
Stealing that sparkle from their eyes ever earlier and earlier?
I would not wish to throw my children into the thralls of chaos,
Paying the heaviest price for mistakes made by generations past.
Knowingly and willingly placing a human being into a situation of such sufferableness seems sociopathic.
The agent within me, however, says:
That these breasts and hips were not given to me for show but are instead tools for creating, birthing, rearing, and shaping a generation of beings.
Through lots of hard, socially alienating work, the fruit of my labour can posses a global consciousness unfathomable to us straddling the fence of eco-socio-spiritual consciousness and materialistic, consumer-based systems;
A global consciousness that will soon recognize the necessity of action in favour of retaining a habitable habitat.
But such a perspective requires nourishing values and us fence-sitters are not quite so good at identifying let alone acting upon benevolent values.
When my child just out of diapers demands the latest Mac gizmo for fear of being ostracized from their peers,
I know the super heroine work will begin.
So, to abstain from or to bring forth life are both acts of love rooted in the desire to diminish suffering.
But the very nature of the question is not rooted in love,
Rather a frightening distrust of humanity.
Where, then, do I derive my hope?

Small Frames in the Bigger Picture

It always seemed more correct to me that life should be complicated.
Surrounded by many known unknowns and an infinite amount of unknown unknowns, it just seemed likely that complexity should be the foundation from which a life is built.
However serious I take my life and the experiences I have, I always considered that within such a perspective of life meaning is born.
But if life is what you make it and if I choose to complicate mine, what of those who choose simplicity?
They cannot be deemed incorrect, on the contrary.
With eyes connected to a brain that filters life through the big picture lens, over complication comes naturally.
Taming the wild intellectual beast seems to be my quest,
Turning a heavily laden life into a weightless one,
Devoid of abstract meaning or purpose.
Admitting that there are so many facets of this earthly life which we will never know, understand, ascertain is step one of the self-help programme.
I have always sought rules of engagement, or certainty, within the day-to-day,
Providing myself with a false sense of security.
From whence these rules are supposed to originate or whom enforces them is a question I cannot answer, And I reject anyone else's rules but mine thus.
But to play the game with authenticity one must embrace uncertainty.
The magic elixir of life.
Full of fear, excitement, enchantment and disappointment.
Simply put,
The best parts of the human experience.
Simplicity, or the process to, must involve a stripping away of unnecessities,
So here comes the hard work:
Discerning which parts stay and which parts are destined for the burning pile.
It seems simplicity, too, can be complicated.

Un-Present

Rushing moments, pushing the present to its limits,
Conscious of the constant hum of right now.
With fingers housing creative energies poised to attack the next project that must be undertaken,
Charging forward with an unharnessed power of lightening.
Shrugging off the past, blazing into the future, and disconnected from the moment
As self-consciousness is intellectualized and not holistically experienced.
Come down from the clouds to rest your feet on the Earth.
Painful awareness of the tick-tock of the clock ironically brings one closer to death by preventing life,
As time is kept alive in the mind,
Staking claim to valuable space.
Stunted by the pressure of what must, what should, what could be done in the next moment.
Overwhelmed by the possibilities and paralyzed by indecision.
The clock ticks on.
This is the perversion of living here and now,
Letting oneself be caged by thought and not be freed by thoughtlessness.
The anxiety stirred by the passing moments commands to be heeded
As attempts are made to weave the fabric of time into a satin smooth material.
A kind of enveloping cloth that caresses the skin softly and lays lightly upon the body.
But this is not time.
It is not gentle,
It is not subtle,
But it is weightless.
The lightest thing in existence.

A.C.H.

Do not be preoccupied with the amount of spins around the sun,
Do not think about the missed opportunities for fun.
Do not think about where you should and ought to be
And all the things you never got to see.
The past is past so lay it to rest
For the years ahead will be amongst the best.
Do not try to so hard to find the true you,
For the more you focus,
The more its slips out of view.
Give yourself some credit and time to mature,
You will find your place in this crazy world,
Of that, I am sure.

Garage Sale

Selling memories for a dollar here, a dollar there.
Shedding non-contiguous layers that adhered themselves to my subjectivity.
Objects of fondness,
Objects of darkness,
Of beauty, of pain,
Of excess, of childishness.
All of days gone by.
My objective history laid out on poinsettia print without sequence, without the cut of time's knife slicing the past into dates, places, people,
Nicely categorized for easy mental reference.
A dollar here, a dollar there as I watch physical parts of my narrative history incite the desire of passerbys who know not of its place within my life.
The item exchanges hands and a new story begun.
I am glad to see some go as easy and cheaply as they do,
Others cause me to hesitate as a rush of images flood my mind.
A summer in England, a trip to Paris, a visit to the Laurentian mountains all embodied into a few items of representation.
In losing objects I have not lost my past ,
I have lost weight,
Mentally and physically,
As the heaviness of past is replaced with the lightness of future.
A dollar here, a dollar there is all they are worth in the end.