The road to recovery…

Six years ago this evening I walked into the Bradley Center in Milwaukee, exhausted from a long weekend of pond hockey, energized by the opportunity to spread the joy of motorcycling to new dreamers.  I had just finished coaching a young man on the Jumpstart (a riding simulator).  He was so excited.  His mom was nervous but the ear to ear smile on his face when he rolled on the throttle, shifted gears and felt the wind in his face (artificially produced by a fan.  But still.) He realized a dream.  He conquered his fears and whatever naysayer voices may have been chattering in his mind were silenced.  I believe this young man was probably on the autism spectrum.  He was socially awkward at best.  Fo a small block of time though, he was a giant among men.  Master of a 700 pound machine.  Controller of his destiny.  I stepped away from the motorcycle to allow him some additional moments unsupervised.

It was completely clear to me the power of two wheels.  I went to sit down to bask in the cosmic beauty of it all and promptly fell over, surprised I lacked the strength to right myself.  Observant co-workers alerted onsite medics who put me through a series of tests.  (In my defense, I am not good at pop quizzes.  I failed their tests and they informed me I may have had a stroke.  Of course I knew better.  I was tired.  I was too busy for a stroke.  Strokes only happen to old people which I was not.  <Cosmic laughter>. The called paramedics who responded quickly, had me perform the same tests.  I failed them once, got no study time in between tests, Of course I failed again.  So I’m loaded up into the ambulance and the paramedic who just stuck an IV in my arm after pronouncing, “This won’t hurt at al.”., asked where I’d like to go.  I assumed as the one having the stroke that someone else would be in charge of that call.  I realize now that coherent patients are allowed to pick their hospital.  In hindsight I wish I’d said “Bahama General” or “Seattle Grace” even, but I picked the hospital where I watched my son being born and we were on our way.  We arrived and I was oddly calm, believing all of the medics, doctors and nurses and other staff were going to feel embarrassed when I walked out that night with a mild case of sleep deprivation.  They performed their observations and I waited patiently (no pun intended) while hospital staff came in and out of the ER shaking their heads saying, “you’re in such good shape” (I’m a freaking hockey player), “you’re so young” ( I…uh….Okay), “You shouldn’t have had a stroke”. (So let me leave) Big Doctor….”You had a stroke” (Doaaaaah). Bummer.

I woke up the next morning paralyzed on my left side.  I wasn’t angry until I saw the concern/fear in my son’s eyes when he showed up to visit.  I was easily distracted by the parade of people coming into my room offering support and encouragement.  My life had just changed course in a way I still have trouble understanding.

I lost some things.  My motorcycling world would change dramatically.  My ability to play the guitar and sing in tune was impacted.  The ease in which my body moved before was dramatically changed.  A few people asked if I was mad at God.  I don’t believe in a god that randomly imposes curses.  I don’t know why I had a stroke.  No one was able to ever tell me why it happened.  Six years out it makes no difference.  I DID have a stroke.  I moved on.  Awkwardly and off balance, falling at inopportune times.  I learned to walk again.  I learned to get back up.  Literally.  I had to learned how to get up after falling.  I experienced a darkness I expected would kill me.  I awoke at some point to a glorious light.  I am gainfully employed again.  I am independent and doing almost anything and everything I want.  I have everything I need and more.  I have everything I want and more.

I continue to impact the lives of new motorcyclists.  I get to travel all over the country.  I hope that I have shown my son that setbacks do not equal failure, only new opportunities to learn.  To grow.  To live.

Six years ago tonight I started the biggest adventure ever.  And live to tell about it.

Big A

It’s funny how time changes things. Our understanding of life. Our appreciation of things. I’m always surprised at how life humbles me and elevates my spirit and how the passage of time impacts that. As I’m sitting in a hotel in Arizona, marveling at the gifts that the Creator has conferred upon me, I’m constantly hoping I’ve earned it and that I make a difference. I’d like to think I have and still do, but there are days when I wonder if I’ve done the best I can.

Over the past few days, several points in the dot to dots that have connected to make the picture of my life appeared and showed me how the path of my life was perfectly designed. An old friend who gave me the strength to be my authentic self. My sisters-in-laws from another life. If only we could recognize the perfection and the timing of all that defines and forges our being as we journey through our lives. Even now as I navigate through the missteps and detours, I try to push the river upstream instead of trusting that it is all as it should and must be.

So here’s to an old friend whose craziness brought me sanity and clarity. Here’s to sister in laws that had every reason to sever ties and leave me in the past yet chose to hold me in a space without judgement. Here’s to a kind and a generous man whose heart may have stopped but his light and kindness will continue to live on.

Here’s to those rare moments of spiritual awakening that allow for connecting some of the dots with peace and serenity. Here’s hoping that, if the Me that I’ve become ever meets the Me I was born to be, we find we are the same. Or at least I come close.

Peace, Love and Dot to Dots.

Coyote

Coyote (canis latrans), for many Native Americans, is the totem representing the universal trickster, Davy and clever, the totem that mixes it up, plays jokes on the least suspecting. I have believed that my totem was the hawk, the eagle or even the redwing blackbird. All of these represent spirit, paying attention to signs and listening to the universe. Lately I believe my totem may well be the cunning trickster Himself.

When I think I know the direction or purpose for my being, the Coyote appears to confuse me again and make me doubt all I believe.

From the start of my memories he has been there, creating chaos in my calm. I have cursed him many times. But if I am to believe in higher purpose, perhaps I am being give the greater gift of opportunities to embrace chaos and change. It scares me. It confuses me. Ultimately it makes me stronger. As the indigenous say, it provides me with the medicine necessary when I need it most. I may not want it but I have learned that I do not have to want it. I must learn to use it at any rate or the Coyote will continue to challenge me.

I’d like to believe that this “medicine will heal me in the long run. Ahh. I long for an easier path. A road that gets me from point A to point B, without speed bumps or potholes. That is not my path. I have not chosen the path nor the medicine. So I must chose to follow or pull over. And many times I do pull over. I get out my map (the thing we used before GPS) and try to see other roads or paths to take. I find that it is easier not to push the river upstream. I know this but continue to push.

As I push, I learn. As I learn, I grow. I stumble, I fall. But I grow.

I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t seeking growth so I shouldn’t be so surprised that the universe leads me on that path.

So here’s to stumbling, falling, getting back up and learning. Here’s to growth.

Here’s to Coyote, master of the tricks that lead me home.

II https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfoqELZWcp8

Riding the Rapids

The summer before my freshman year in high school, I went with a group of other ill-prepared teenagers on a bicycle ride across the state of Pennsylvania.  There were grownups along for our safety but I wonder if any of us were truly prepared or equipped for the adventure.  We rode some 60 miles a day which far surpassed my 10-15 personal best.  PA is mountainous and curvy, some of my favorite characteristics of the world in general, and the riding was challenging.  That’s without taking into consideration that we were sharing the roads with big trucks running through small towns at big speeds.  Them, not us.  We camped along the way at lovely state parks that I’m convinced are lovelier on sunlit days.  It rained that trip.  A lot.  But each day my body and my heart grew stronger.

The ride would end at Ohiopyle state park in the western part of the state.  We had reservations to raft the Youghiogheny river.  150 miles of river stretching through Pa, MD and WV, at 3477 cubic feet per minute.  White Water running.

I love a good adventure and I love to find the analogies in my life.  The thrill and the risk of bouncing through the smaller rapids, whetting appetites for the bigger spots.  My life in a nut shell, where some have suggested it belongs.  And then, the guide has us pull the raft over to the shore for a “pep talk”, safety review.  The pace was going to pick up, the rapids were going to be bigger, more dangerous.  People have died!  I’m giddy with excitement.  I don’t expect to die today but I would like to dance with danger and throw up a middle finger.

Safety lesson/warnings over.  When in doubt, brace your feet and keep paddling.  Hang on tight and enjoy the ride.  Come on already.  Let’s roll!  Adult chaperones are nervous.  It’s on them if they lose a kid today.  I could see the fear in their eyes and even then knew adulting had way too much responsibility.

We pushed off.  The rapids are still down river and appear paltry.  I am initially not daunted.  A few bumps are to be expected.  We get closer.  The volume of the crashing water has increased and I get my first glimpse of the entirety of the rapids.  Outstanding.  Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the guide.  Do we stay right?  Left?  Jump out?  My heart rate increases.  I feel completely alive but I notice the fear seep in.  The water gets rougher as we approach

the apex.  Been there, done that.  We are feet, now inches from the edge.  Boulders surround us, inviting us to crash, like ancient sirens calling Greek sailors to their deaths.  When in doubt….  I keep paddling.  I will not drown today.  I will enjoy this ride and the rush of the impending drop.  And spin. And bobbing up and down as we navigate safely through.  No capsizing.  No getting crushed by rocks.   And now we drift.  Safely downstream in our little rubber boat.  This river.  It has shown us calm drifting and 6 foot drops.  Class VI rapids and half mile stretches of trees and the occasional wild life. 

Life:  This river.  I have been drifting for a while now.  Enjoying the scenery and avoiding the random drop offs and outcrops.  This is the part where the wise river guide pulls us over to the bank.  Feels like there is a big rapids coming up.  The river is moving faster.  There are additional hazards to navigate.  It’s fine.  I have been riding this river my entire life.  I can see the flow.  I know the current.  I have navigated enough rapids, from small to large.  I have ridden chutes that scare me looking back but at the time were just part of the bigger flow.  I know when to portage and when to lean in.  I have been a swimmer.  I haven’t died.  I haven’t encountered this river before.  I can see the drop off.  The current is picking up.  I am aiming my vessel at the confluence.  This could be the greatest adventure ever or I could get smashed into the rocks.  I am in the run and moving quickly towards the chute.  There is still time to paddle hard to the bank and avoid this flow.  When in doubt…..keep paddling.

 

Signs signs, everywhere signs

Ahhhh.  All of my recent restlessness. Signs. Flashing billboards alerting me to the upcoming road trip. The point a to point b direct line.   I have looked for signs, listened to signs….obeyed the signs for as long as I can remember.  Alright, most signs.  When I did’t listen to signs, they just got bigger, flashier.  The important ones never go away.  Red-tailed hawks fly in and out lest I forget to pay attention to signs. And lately I have determined that if there is laughter, it’s the biggest sign of all, and not to be ignored.  The Universe does not like to be ignored.

I believe the Universe wants us to have joy. Unrestricted, pure, proof-of-all-things-good joy.  It demands it.  Just too many of us have been conditioned to believe it is not our Jubilee.  We don’t get a seat at the big table.  I know.  I believed that for a lifetime (or two).  I had done nothing exceptional to deserve unabashed joy.  And still it came.  Continues to come.  Despite my outright denial most days.  Despite the voice in my head that tells me that it is a trap.  Whose freaking voice is that?!  Joy and happiness are my birthright.  It would be rude to walk away.   Besides, the Universe knows where we live.  It will hunt us down and find us.  Happened to me.

I believe in “when” not “if”. It will find us. To resist is to deny, to ask for additional, sometimes unavoidable signs. As if one could stop a storm from coming. Torrential rains pouring down, causing mudslides and flash flooding. As if you could will the sun to stop setting or coming back up in the morning. As if I could stop the birds from singing. As if.

Not that I am completely comfortable with joy.  But that makes it sweeter still, knowing all of this stuff is fleeting.  Knowing the smelling, touching, tasting is all in the here and now and no matter how rich, or smart or guarded, the next moment is never promised.  And one never knows when the apple will fall directly into you hand or to the ground to turn brown.  So, I guess I’m attached to Joy.

I pay attention to signs.  I’ve never felt I had a choice.  Eventually I know when I have discounted the signs.  Always I come to know that the thing I initially discarded as just a flashy, unnecessary distraction, turned out to be the sign I needed to follow to avoid getting lost.  I wish I had paid more attention when I was younger. Especially to that 25 mpg speed limit sign in Horicon, WI.

Curses and spells

I really ,REALLY want to play my guitar right now!

Even the ukulele looks at me like I’m broken.

Can inanimate objects laugh?

Damn you music in my soul.

Just sing already.    The words can catch up later.

I hope.

If not, it will have to be enough that a small bit of pressure is released.  A bit at a time.

This uncharted territory.

This strangely familiar and comfortable place.

A tsunami of sorts.

I willingly await the torrents.  Bring it on.

I am a force of nature too you know.

I do not fear the impending wave.

I go head to head,

with all of the arrogance of blind trust in the path.

Breath.

Breathe.

Two entirely different things.

Breath is life, required for continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

Breathing is the flow of in and out.  The present moment.  The now.

Breath is automatic.

Breathing requires trust and intention.

The guitar would be confused at the words that come before/without music.

I am sorry, guitar my friend.

The break up was entirely my fault.

But never my choice.

I need you now as I drift and bob and sway.

You would know the secret.  You would have a song for this.

You would steer me north.

Damn you music in my soul.

 

Summer breeze…

Wow.  My last post was super long.  I guess I needed to process a lot.  Thanks for reading and for the humbling comments.  This post will be considerably shorter:

The night is still.  The night is chaotic with activity.

This canopy of stars overhead,

Starlight just now arriving with such perfect timing.

The strawberry full moon is fashionably late

but she effortlessly takes my breath away.

Fireflies are abundant here.

I don’t want to sleep tonight.

I just want to lay out on the grass and watch the fireflies.

Tonight, the fireflies bring a new delight

as they dance above the fields.

Dance fireflies, dance.

Learning to Breathe

 

It has been a longer than normal training travel for me.  I prepared for the trip with less enthusiasm than I usually have.  I am getting into a routine with my new old life back in PA.  I have been meeting new people and making friends.  All of this occurs when I travel too.  I have the great fortune of meeting like minds in the motorcycling world.  I generally look forward to these training trips with much anticipation.  Something this time was different and I couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

None the less, as the dates approached I got into my pre trip ritual involving planning, packing, preparing.  Issue number one:  packing.  A typical training schedule is a Friday through Tuesday.  Just a long weekend.  This time there are back to back weekends with a three-day layover in Milwaukee to celebrate my son’s 15th birthday.  That means clothing for 12 days (including clean underwear), double the training tools I use and toiletries and medications.  That means a large suitcase instead of my carry on North Face duffle.  One small carry on which means lighter on and off but stopping by baggage claim which I can usually bypass.

Mindset adjusted.  New friends will be there when I return.  New friends will be made at the training locations.  Big head Paulie dog got to go camping, so I know he won’t notice I’m gone.  I’m off to the airport and assume my travel mode which involves putting in my earbuds and avoiding eye contact since I know I will be on people overload very soon.  Good trainings mean the overload will encompass an emotional intensity that requires a recovery period. This trip would leave little down time for recovery but I love intensity so it will be fine.  Still I am unsettled.  One final, fuck it, and I’m on the plane, flying on to adventure.  Final (first) destination, Birmingham, Alabama.  Roll Tide!

A layover in Charlotte, a training trouble shoot opportunity and I’m fully engaged in the trip.  I have my training hat fully in place and secured.  Off to Bama.  Touch down, rental car acquired and my soul is released driving north on highway 59.  In this moment, time stands still and I am completely and totally alive, exploding with anticipation of the grand adventure awaiting.  These rare and precious frozen in time moments are the affirmation my brain (and heart) need to maintain hope that living fully is still possible.

My training partner and I prepare for the transformation we both understand will occur in our participants over the next few days.  What we can never prepare or plan for, though, is on what level of the Richter scale the transformation will register.  That is part of the greatness of these things.  A student stops in early to let us know she has arrived. This is my time, my sacred space and not yet ready for viewing. She has stepped into the middle of my inhale and thrown off my rhythm.  The next three days my energy will belong completely to the participants and I want this final evening as mine.  And yet, we finish the set up and leave for dinner where we can finalize our plan for the morning.  I’m exhausted and intend to go directly to bed after dinner. When we get to the hotel, however, there are bikers out front.  This is why I don’t wear any official training gear until after day one and found myself thinking I should have worn my Triumph t-shirt so that I could go unnoticed.  I have been in contact via phone with the training participants last week and feel no need to begin interacting this evening (again, this is my inhale) but my colleague extends a hearty welcome and draws me in.  So it begins:  the sacred and holy journey of the participants’ experience.  I excuse myself and retreat to my room and king-sized, pillow topped escape pod.  Morning will end the silence I enjoy in my head right now.  I have joy in my heart and have forgotten that I had some reservations regarding this trip.

I am back in central time but living on Eastern time so the morning was strangely right on time.  My pre-game ritual was relaxed and unrushed.  I made my way to the hotel lobby where the official first meetings occur as I am providing transportation for some participants.  Arriving at the classroom, the other participants who are local begin to ride up and enter the classroom.  The swagger they bring is intended to mask the apprehension I know they feel.  I have been there.  We will recognize and name that later.  For now, it is simply welcome.

I have switched completely to training mode.  I am smiling and welcoming, relating tidbits of information I have gleaned from initial phone contacts, personalizing the upcoming experience.  I am cool.  I am confident.  I am the standard by which future trainings will be judged.  I bask in this moment knowing that my next move will be to become insignificant, invisible.  It is time.  Time to shift the paradigms of yet another group of trainees.

The Richter scale is set off early as the class quickly connects and relationships are established.  I freely admit that I fall in love quickly with these people who open themselves up so easily to a new learning and experiences.  By the end of day one, I love all 18 of them.  By the end of day 4, I am starting to miss my newest friends but must begin the process of disconnecting and preparing for the next group.  It’s a process I have become accustomed to but never fond of.

Luckily I have scheduled a distracting interlude and will spend several days with my son in Milwaukee.  Not so luckily, the airline has managed to lose my luggage.  And there is a problem with my rental vehicle.  But hey, I’m home again.  Odd that should pop into my head. I mean, my home is Pennsylvania, the place I was born and raised.  But there is a familiar sense of belonging I get, driving to my hotel.   (In the shuttle provided, so I can figure out my rental tomorrow.) The hotel is close and only for my first night until I make my way to the quaint air b and b north of the city, closer to my son.  I sleep well and wake up prepared to problem solve in the same outfit I wore yesterday.

The rental car is not going to work for the next few days so I Lyft to my next destination.  A combination of frustration, sadness and homesickness/homecoming have me close to tears.  Yet I don’t cry.  I breathe it in.  As soon as I reach my son’s house, the tears come.  Luckily he is not home yet.  I miss my newest friends but my Facebook newsfeed is blowing up with their posts and I know I have made a difference.  And I am home, in a way, so the world is good right now.  Then my son comes home and, for the first time in six months, I see this marvelous human being who calls me mom. He is taller, sturdier and his voice has deepened.  I second guess my decision to have moved away. I have missed too much. Breathe it in. I don’t want to waste any of my short stay with sadness or regret.

I am able to enjoy a nice afternoon with this boy and ease back into a non-trainer mindset, walking through the world simply enjoying.  I find my air b and b and have a lovely exchange with my Icelandic hostess. I relax and simply become a traveler.  The only responsibility I have for the next three days is to be present.  And to pick up my luggage which has been located!

I get a car for my training in Madison, Wisconsin, an hour from Milwaukee.  I drive there and start the transition to trained professional.  I have just done this less than a week and a half ago so it should be easy, but I resist the shift from participant to facilitator this time. I allow myself to believe that this next leg will be as intensely satisfying for all involved as the first.  All I truly know is that my preconceived ideas are usually wrong. I have one last chance to disengage as I return to Milwaukee to celebrate my son’s 15^th birthday. He is growing up without me.  I am growing old away from him. There is injustice in the world and there is mercy in the world. I am dancing on the edge.

I return to Madison so that I can sleep in tomorrow.  I have 90 minutes of drive time to become my trainer self.  I am so attached to my present self that I am pulling into the hotel lot before I can concede that tomorrow I will be crossing over once again.  Luckily, sleep comes swiftly, as does the morning waking.

There is only one other Harley shirt in the lobby so of course I make eye contact.  I’m not ready to engage so I pour my coffee and sit down alone.  When I go to the car to pull around to the hotel entrance, I notice I have a flat tire.  I make the necessary calls and help will be dispatched.  My colleague has come to the breakfast area and I update him on my situation.  I will meet him at the dealership as soon as I am able.  I can put off a bit longer, being a people person.

As I am waiting for AAA, I get a text from the dealership, insisting they NEED me.  I suspect spoof as I view the photo of my co facilitator lying on the floor.  No panic.  Tire changed, it is a short, simple drive to the training location.  Upon my arrival I find that my training partner had fallen and twisted his ankle.  I introduce myself as the other physically challenged facilitator.  And so it begins.

Perhaps it was the train wreck of a morning start but this group of trainees is tough!  No smiles, no laughs and they are barely looking at each other.  Plus, there are only 7 out of the 10 expected.  Roll tide.  The day ends and I get to the hotel as quickly as possible.  Which means after I take the rental car back to swap out for another with a real tire on.  AAA put on the mini doughnut.

Back at the hotel I greet my bed like a long lost friend, turn on some mindless cable and leave the day behind me.  Sort of.  These types of days are hard to let go of but I must have drifted off to sleep.  How else would I have awakened at 3:00 in the morning, wide awake?  By the time I really must wake up, I am tired and slightly tentative about the upcoming day.  I make my way to the lobby, go out and check my tires (fully inflated!) and grab a cuppa.  Surely a sign that today will be better.

Or not.

Day two of training is when the magic begins to happen.  Apparently this group didn’t get the memo.  They continued to be reserved and quiet.  Of course I assumed it was our facilitation.  We survived the day and again I retreated to my hotel room.  Sleep is a nice respite and I am always exhausted at the end of a training day.

Day 3:  We plod forward.  I am not entirely attached to this experience and I’m trying to make myself stay engaged.  For the only time during this training, I go out for dinner instead of retreating to my room.  I didn’t go with the group however and so it was just a quiet, reflective evening.  Back at my room, I organized and packed my things so that tomorrow’s check out would be quick and painless.  Sleep, my friend.

I wake up knowing I need only to get dressed and zip up my suitcase.  All of the other details are addressed.  I drive to the training location knowing I must just last 4 more hours.  Then the drive to the airport.  I have some extra time so I sneak in a last visit with my son.  My heart hurts as I say good bye this time.  Our next visit is unplanned.  He promises me he won’t grow anymore before I see him again.

Storms move into the city.  My flight is delayed. I will most likely miss my connecting flight home.  It has been that kind of trip.  An adventure for sure. A pain in the ass at times definitely. I just want to go…I don’t know where my home is at this particular point in time.  I know I will be in Pennsylvania tomorrow at the latest.  And then, I will plan my next adventure.  It will for sure include sleep and sunshine somewhere.  It is the end of this trip for me and time to breathe out.  Breathe in again, breathe out.  All I can do is keep breathing. 

In Between

Somewhere in between vulture vomit and angel tears in yoga mats, the Universe woke up another brain worm:  breathing, in the “in between” time.

I have been listening to more music as of late (thank you commuting time) and a new favorite of mine: Somewhere Different Now” by Girly Man, keeps striking a chord.
“Not quite lost, not quite found
I’m just somewhere different now”

So much of our life we spend on auto pilot, going through the motions. Having been exposed to meditation and become a practitioner of sorts, I am grateful to be able to recognize the moments at times that connect. I can sometimes even detect the intention required to participate. Sometimes a gentle reminder is required. I have stumbled upon some most excellent teachers , masquerading as regular human beings, (you have them too if you’re paying attention). When I say stumbled upon, of course it means they have appeared just when I needed them, bringing along the wisdom my soul is ready to absorb.
For whatever reason, due to whatever set of circumstances, I am raw and restless. I am in the place where life is serious shit, and I want to feel it all.  So a teacher/cool-as-fuck human being appears and promptly calls me out. Yeah, I can feel the intensity. I celebrate and embrace the goodness. I have even learned to walk with and appreciate the darkness. But can I lean into the In Between stuff?  I tend to avoid that.  Which explains the restlessness I feel, the need I have to search. Not for person, place or thing, but out of the between.

And the Universe bombards. A quote arrived this afternoon,
“Everything ends, unless you stay in between. It’s much easier there”

In Between is where we become paralyzed, afraid to love, afraid to lose, afraid to take any risk for fear it will result in an ending. But endings are necessary for new beginnings. And I love the beginnings. I’m growing fonder of the endings. It’s the “In Betweens” I have to figure out. And I am not one for easier.  So I breathe.

I’m not quite lost, no where near found, just somewhere different now.

In Between