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Night Riding

One late summer evening, I had the opportunity to take a night ride on my bicycle. Headed home from yoga, with my mat slug across my back, I decided to take the long way. The air was relatively dry for a late-August Minnesota night. The sun had set 15 minutes prior and the street lights were on.

The obnoxious light on my rear bike tire that helps keep me safe during night rides.

There is something special about a night ride. When I walk, I usually have my AirPods in, listening to a book or podcast, and I am playing Pokémon Go. Yes, I am a 40-year-old-grown-ass-woman who plays Pokémon. Go team Mystic! Since I am on my bike, my AirPods are out and my phone is secured in my bag. Riding gets my full attention.

The songs of crickets and cicadas become my soundtrack. The lights from the cars and street lamps cast ever-changing shapes on the pavement around me. I look down between my pumping legs and see that obnoxious light spin in and out of my vision on my back tire, each time a different hue of the rainbow.

I see pockets of the world in the darkness. The shape of a tree against the darkening sky. The dimly lit front stoop of a home. The flashing bubble-gums of the county mounty who caught himself a speeder along Oakland. I let this different world surround me, embrace me. There is a stillness that comes with night riding and I open to it. I feel the cool pockets of air on my skin. I enjoy the intimacy and privacy that comes with darkness.

My eyes catch the first “star” in the sky as I turn towards home. Jupiter is bright and hovers above, guiding me back to the land of lamps and light.

Turning Points

Image purchased from iStock by Getty Images.
Designed by nazlisart.

I woke up to the conversation on the radio. In my bleary state, I heard the voices say two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers in New York City. I was instantly awake and across the apartment to turn on the TV. The scenes were horrific. Straight out a disaster flick starring Bruce Willis. Moments later, the South Tower collapsed. I quickly showered and dressed for my day. Before I left my apartment for the Southwest Missouri State University campus, the North Tower Collapsed.

I canceled everything for the day and was glued to the TVs on campus and in apartments with friends. Silence and disbelief filled every space.

I sat with friends at their apartment in the afternoon and watched as Dan Rather aired a video for the first time showing people jumping from the buildings prior to their collapse.

I witnessed the wreckage of Flight 93, which passengers forced down in a field in Pennsylvania. Later, It was determined the plane’s likely final target was in Washington DC.

I observed the crumbled side of the Pentagon, where Flight 77 crashed into the building.

I heard the phone calls made by loved ones on the four planes the crashed that day. All sending one last message of love.

For the following year, there were cars everywhere sporting the American flag, Toby Keith and Alan Jackson played on repeat on country stations, and the U.S. collectively mourned the 2,996 people who died on that day in the towers and crashed flights. We were united in our grief and patriotism.

In a matter of minutes, we all lived in a different world. One that grew to include Homeland Security, full-body scans, no-fly lists, and a whole new meaning to the numbers 9 and 11.

In March of 2020, another major event struck the world – the Coronavirus.

All of the college classes I taught went online. Employees and students were sent home to help stop the spread.

Social distancing. Lessons on handwashing. Teams of sewers making masks out of every scrap of fabric they could find.

Zoom became the place to meet for class, meetings, and happy hour. Some of the world made a shift to baking bread at home, wearing PJs or yoga pants for everything, and drive-thru grocery pick-up. Alcohol sales skyrocketed.

Again, the world changed quickly and will be forever different. Finding the “new normal” was a common topic of conversation. Some accepted this reality, others chose to deny it.

Rather than coming together as we did nearly 20 years earlier when the towers fell, we split into groups. Maskers and anti-maskers and eventually vaxxers and anti-vaxxers. People who listened to the experts and believed what science was learning and people who didn’t. Conspiracy theories and misinformation spread faster than the virus thanks to social media.

The turning point we are facing now is more than a virus. More than masking, vaccinations, and the changing way we move and work in the world. We no longer agree on reality. We live in different news bubbles, worlds driven by whatever we chose to take as fact even if it’s really a falsehood. Lives where we get to deny reality because it makes us feel better, even if that denial kills others.

The turning point we face now is the division in our society. It’s an internal threat that can’t be addressed by invading another country. It has to start within each of us. We are our own worst enemies now. We are the hijackers, the terrorists in our nation. We are also the healers, the uniters if we so choose to be.

The question then is “Which do you choose?”

A Trashy Finish

Fresh Start

It’s that magical time of year when new notebooks and folders line the aisles and there are 100 different writing implements to choose from – That’s right! Schools supplies are in stores!

I always loved this time of year growing up. By the end of summer, I was always ready to go back to school. See my friends. Return to my school routine.

I reveled in the trip to the store to get my school supplies for the year. All the notebooks, pens, folders, fresh Crayola markers, and cool new Trapper Keepers. I had a Trapper Keeper when I was in elementary school. It was an incredible invention for a school nerd like me. Made me feel like a cooler kid than I really was.

I say “school nerd” because even 16 years after I finished my master’s degree, I still take time to pour through the school supplies each year. I get excited when I see all the new things that have been created. The pretty gel pens, the grid-spaced composition notebooks, and the new organizational supplies for students (though none will ever be as awesome as the Trapper Keeper). I usually leave the store with at least a few new things for me to use.

As a teacher, I live by the semester just as students do. When I was a student, I saw the start of a new school year as an opportunity for a fresh start. New supplies, new clothes, and new opportunities for growth and learning. A chance to be a better me.

I still see the start of the academic year as a clean slate. A chance to do it all over again, and hopefully a little bit better than the previous year. This is a gift.

May we all be given the gift of a fresh start. May we all have the opportunity to do whatever we embark upon better than we did previously.

The Face of Lonely

Yoga

There was a new person next to me in yoga class today. Young, about 25, flat stomach, and curves where they should be. Her seemingly perfect, young body makes me very aware of my own.

As I bend into forward fold, I am aware of my ankles. They are my mother’s ankles when she was forty. I don’t remember asking her for them. I prefer she’d kept them.

I become keenly aware as I step back into downward dog that I am not as flexible as I was when I was 30. Did my hamstrings get shorter?

Child’s pose is awkward. COVID weight gain has put my stomach in my way. I have to open my legs wider to let the extra me fall between them.

In high lunge, I stare up at my arms. They are soft. I remember that my arms continue waving after my hand stops. A bonus wave that I wish didn’t exist.

In forward standing A, I get a good look between my legs. My thighs are good buddies now when I walk. They press and rub together. They don’t seem to understand social distancing.

I realize my t-shirt keeps riding up on me when I bend over. I make a mental note to order some long-tail shirts from Duluth Trading Company. I must guard against plumber’s butt.

Forward low lunge requires an extra blanket under my knees so it doesn’t hurt. My hips resist the stretch.

Fierce pose makes my quads burn. They are far from ready for the long days cycling at RAGBRAI coming this July. I am reminded that I need to start training.

Balance poses make me feel strong and competent again. Tree, Eagle, Warrior 3. I flow in and out of them with confidence. Steady. Strong. Focused.

I am sure no one notices my inner turmoil. Everyone in the class is focused on their own, but in my mind, everyone sees my rolls and imperfections. My limitations and gracelessness. All the extra me I wish wasn’t. I feel like I don’t belong here.

But, I do belong here.

This is temporary.

All of it is temporary.

The tight hamstrings, the bonus wave, my mom’s ankles. They will all change. The extra me will melt away as I bike this summer. My hamstrings will elongate and feel less tight. My hips will open to lunges. The fire in my quads will calm. This is where I am now, but not who I am. The day will come when I may not be able to do yoga at all. When I may not be able to bike long distances or even walk short ones.

So I smile at the resistance in my hips, the extra me that rubs when I walk, and the strength in my tree pose. These too are temporary. I will embrace them for the time they are with me.

Montgomery’s

Montgomery’s Truck Stop (1587 North Glenstone Avenue) sat at the northwest corner of Division Street and Glenstone Avenue in Springfield, Missouri. A poorly maintained asphalt parking lot surrounded the light-colored brick building. Some friends and I visited this dingy hole-in-the-wall weekly for a while in college and spent hours “doing homework” and solving the problems […]

Floor Furnace

In the fall of 2009, I was in the middle of a divorce.  My 4.5-year marriage had been failing for longer than it had worked. It became apparent to me that this relationship wasn’t what I needed. A friend of mine owned a small rental house that was empty. She lent me the key so I could have a place to go to get away from my soon-to-be-ex-husband and the house we owned while the legal system caught up with what my heart already knew – that the relationship was over.

This is very much like the floor furnace I describe in my blog. Unfortunately, I do not have a photo of that actual floor furnace to share. (image obtained from Pinterest)

This rental house, a small 2-bedroom, 1-bath bungalow, had a floor furnace in the dining room that heated the house. That floor furnace would become my touchstone over the next year.

It is where I sat when I called my mom and told her I was divorcing my husband.

It is where, wrapped in a blanket, I sat and cried about the loss of the life I had known and tried to figure out what I wanted to do next.

It is where I stood each winter morning in my robe to warm myself after I moved into the bungalow and finalized my divorce.

It is where I conducted many hours of conversations with my very patient girlfriends as they helped me navigate the emotional labor of ending a marriage and moving forward with my life.

Its creaks and clicks became the soundtrack of my life while I surveyed the world and planned my next steps as a single woman.

Like a light bulb to a new-born chick, it provided me with physical warmth during an emotionally trying and cold period in my life.

In January 2011, I left the floor furnace and moved out of that bungalow, headed on a northern migration. I had that furnace for just one year, but that was all I needed. I had developed a plan forward and it was time to move on, much like the chick that outgrows its need for warmth from the light bulb.

There are times when we will realize the smallest thing did so much for us – a moment of understanding silence, a book that touched us deeply, a hot cup of tea at just the right time. These are the simple things that make the hard times in life bearable. While things and moments are fleeting, their impact on us lasts a lifetime.