For the past eight years I have ridden pillion with my husband, sharing the same small space together on the same bike. He has been the driver and I have been his teammate, navigator and fellow competitor. But now I am riding my own bike, following at a slight distance behind him, no longer dependent on him to make all the decisions about how to handle the bike.
It's great fun steering my own bike, making my own mistakes and pushing myself to try on a new challenge. My years of riding with my husband are paying off...I have a natural feel for what to do having experienced so many different situations in all our time together. I understand what wind or rain feels like, what the bike will do when it's going too slow or too fast, and how to maneuver through curves and traffic.
The critical learning is that no matter what is happening, I have to be riding my own ride. I typically follow him when we are riding together, allowing my concentration to be on improving my ability to navigate through different situations and circumstance rather than where we are going. I feel a bit more comfortable figuring out my pace and style when I am not being followed by a more experienced rider.
And therein lies the critical issue: I have to ride my own ride. The very first time we rode together I mistakenly believed I had to keep up with him, particularly when we came to stop signs and decisions to move through them. I failed to acknowledge my own experience and felt I had to do what he did. A couple of times I almost fell when I had to suddenly stop for an approaching car that he easily cleared but I didn't have the space to do the same. I then had to spend time calming down, and in the process I felt my confidence waning.
I realized I wasn't connecting to my bike and my experience. I was still on his bike, and that was a dangerous place to be. That realization forced me to let go of his expectations and his knowledge, and begin to develop my own sense of what to do and when to do it. Coming to a stop sign, I had to slow down, stop, and figure out when I felt safe to proceed. If he had to wait for me, so be it. Whether riding on the freeway or a twisty mountain road, I had to find a pace and rhythm that worked for me. I had to listen to myself, not anyone else.
It's easy to get caught in someone else's ride, in someone else's experience, and forget to pay attention to my own. Noticing when that happens, the solution is simple...coming back to my bike, my body, my ride. Being willing to let go of someone else's expectations and experiences, whether real or imagined, and remain connected to myself is critical, especially when my life depends on it.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Expectations
When I was a kid, I'd go crazy with anticipation: for Christmas, my birthday, the start of a new school year, the end of a school year and the start of summer...you name it, I'd be eagerly counting the days and minutes until it would come, and then go, in a flash. My unrealistic expectations almost always meant the event would somehow disappoint. I needed it to be too big, too perfect. I needed it to break up the mundane of my daily life, or to, for at least those moments, make everything else seem ok. I needed it to be magical.
I have just returned home from a two month sabbatical, riding around the country on the back of a motorcycle visiting friends and family, happily meeting new folks and tearfully saying goodbye to some too soon. I attended conferences, helped with motorcycling events, hung out in campgrounds, and even officiated at a wedding. People continually ask if it was an amazing time, and I have struggled with a simple answer.
The simple answer is 'sure, it was a ton of fun.' In many ways it was, and the freedom of being on the road for those two months with my husband was a gift I will treasure. But more importantly, what I learned was that it really was about living... on the road, at home: being present to whatever I was doing. It wasn't the anticipation, the expectation, the need for it to be amazing. It was the need for it to
'just be.'
We let the trip unfold, and noticed what showed up. We started with a general outline of places we needed to be, and built the rest spontaneously. Instead of scheduling every minute, and filling all the blank spaces with 'amazing things to do' we picked a direction that would generally lead us to the next event we had committed to attend, and started riding.
Some of our best moments were the unplanned. Meeting strangers in a campground while waiting to attend a friend's memorial service led to an offer of a place to stay for several nights and new friends in Virginia. Deciding to follow someone's recommendation to try a motorcycle only campground led to five nights hanging out in the hills of North Carolina and meeting fellow riders from all over, sharing stories and laughter over campfires in the sultry air. Changing our route to reconnect with cousins on both sides of our families that we hadn't seen in years brought back memories of family and some new stories we'd never heard before.
Coming home wasn't the dreaded letdown it had often been in the past. The sabbatical wasn't an escape from a life of drudgery, it was a renewal and a reconfirmation that the life I am living is the one I want to be living, whether I am on the road or home. Each day is to be lived fully, to be open to whatever shows up, to be mindful of not allowing the schedule to dictate my life. Some amazing things happen when I let go of trying to make them perfect.
I have just returned home from a two month sabbatical, riding around the country on the back of a motorcycle visiting friends and family, happily meeting new folks and tearfully saying goodbye to some too soon. I attended conferences, helped with motorcycling events, hung out in campgrounds, and even officiated at a wedding. People continually ask if it was an amazing time, and I have struggled with a simple answer.
The simple answer is 'sure, it was a ton of fun.' In many ways it was, and the freedom of being on the road for those two months with my husband was a gift I will treasure. But more importantly, what I learned was that it really was about living... on the road, at home: being present to whatever I was doing. It wasn't the anticipation, the expectation, the need for it to be amazing. It was the need for it to
'just be.'
We let the trip unfold, and noticed what showed up. We started with a general outline of places we needed to be, and built the rest spontaneously. Instead of scheduling every minute, and filling all the blank spaces with 'amazing things to do' we picked a direction that would generally lead us to the next event we had committed to attend, and started riding.
Some of our best moments were the unplanned. Meeting strangers in a campground while waiting to attend a friend's memorial service led to an offer of a place to stay for several nights and new friends in Virginia. Deciding to follow someone's recommendation to try a motorcycle only campground led to five nights hanging out in the hills of North Carolina and meeting fellow riders from all over, sharing stories and laughter over campfires in the sultry air. Changing our route to reconnect with cousins on both sides of our families that we hadn't seen in years brought back memories of family and some new stories we'd never heard before.
Coming home wasn't the dreaded letdown it had often been in the past. The sabbatical wasn't an escape from a life of drudgery, it was a renewal and a reconfirmation that the life I am living is the one I want to be living, whether I am on the road or home. Each day is to be lived fully, to be open to whatever shows up, to be mindful of not allowing the schedule to dictate my life. Some amazing things happen when I let go of trying to make them perfect.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Motorcycling Meditations
I am on a two month sabbatical from my private practice, journeying around the country with my husband, riding on the pillion seat on our motorcycle. The quiet inside my helmet gives me a lot of time to think, and the need to stay reasonably immobile for hours, often days, on end challenges my natural tendency to want to move. And yet, I find myself remarkably calm and at peace.
I realize I meditate. Not the 'focus on your breath, just notice your thoughts' type meditation. I'm not sitting cross legged with a candle burning watching on the flame. No, I am riding along at 70 miles an hour on an interstate, often with the wind blowing my head from side to side, or most recently with the heat pressing in on me as we rode in temperatures of 104 in our full gear.
My meditation is the 'become more connected to yourself, let your mind wander wherever it wants' meditation. 'Listen to the quiet' meditation. 'Take in the world around you' meditation. 'Make peace with the heat' meditation.
What I have discovered is an incredible richness inside my head. Stories come to me, writing themselves while I give them the time to unfold. I am in no rush to get somewhere, to do something, or to finish a chore. No one is demanding my attention, and I no longer feel the need for distractions. No checking Facebook or email. No phones ringing. Often complete silence. Only occasionally do we have music playing in the background.
The stories are random and curious. Who lives in this remote area? What is their life like? Who might I have been if I had been born and raised here? Would I like the weather or would I want to move away? More often the stories are my own, weaving together words to create a narrative that will soon move to the computer and finally paper. Freed from the constraints of having to produce, my mind wanders and problems get resolved with little effort on my part.
The forced stillness on the bike has become a welcome silence in my life. Unlike other meditations, this time is active and engaging. I am creative and curious, alive and involved. Yet, like any meditation, it is observant, not controlling. I have no idea where my thoughts will go and have no desire to lead them anywhere. I am excited to see where they take me.
Being in the company of friends and family, it becomes more challenging to find the time for such active meditation. Conversations fill the spaces and breaking away takes precious moments from the limited amount of time we have to visit. The urge to spend every minute catching up and creating new memories is compelling. I find myself torn between wanting to stay even longer, hating to say goodbye, and wanting to get back on the bike to reconnect with myself and once again find my inner voice.
This trip reminds me of the constant tension between wanting to do things and wanting to be still, of knowing we will run out of time off before we run out of all the things we want to see, of wanting to be with friends and family and wanting to sit quietly alone. Just noticing the tension, not needing to change it, is a freedom in itself. Remembering to take the time to notice is the gift I am giving myself.
I realize I meditate. Not the 'focus on your breath, just notice your thoughts' type meditation. I'm not sitting cross legged with a candle burning watching on the flame. No, I am riding along at 70 miles an hour on an interstate, often with the wind blowing my head from side to side, or most recently with the heat pressing in on me as we rode in temperatures of 104 in our full gear.
My meditation is the 'become more connected to yourself, let your mind wander wherever it wants' meditation. 'Listen to the quiet' meditation. 'Take in the world around you' meditation. 'Make peace with the heat' meditation.
What I have discovered is an incredible richness inside my head. Stories come to me, writing themselves while I give them the time to unfold. I am in no rush to get somewhere, to do something, or to finish a chore. No one is demanding my attention, and I no longer feel the need for distractions. No checking Facebook or email. No phones ringing. Often complete silence. Only occasionally do we have music playing in the background.
The stories are random and curious. Who lives in this remote area? What is their life like? Who might I have been if I had been born and raised here? Would I like the weather or would I want to move away? More often the stories are my own, weaving together words to create a narrative that will soon move to the computer and finally paper. Freed from the constraints of having to produce, my mind wanders and problems get resolved with little effort on my part.
The forced stillness on the bike has become a welcome silence in my life. Unlike other meditations, this time is active and engaging. I am creative and curious, alive and involved. Yet, like any meditation, it is observant, not controlling. I have no idea where my thoughts will go and have no desire to lead them anywhere. I am excited to see where they take me.
Being in the company of friends and family, it becomes more challenging to find the time for such active meditation. Conversations fill the spaces and breaking away takes precious moments from the limited amount of time we have to visit. The urge to spend every minute catching up and creating new memories is compelling. I find myself torn between wanting to stay even longer, hating to say goodbye, and wanting to get back on the bike to reconnect with myself and once again find my inner voice.
This trip reminds me of the constant tension between wanting to do things and wanting to be still, of knowing we will run out of time off before we run out of all the things we want to see, of wanting to be with friends and family and wanting to sit quietly alone. Just noticing the tension, not needing to change it, is a freedom in itself. Remembering to take the time to notice is the gift I am giving myself.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Sharing of Joys and Sorrows
The day starts out joyful. The sun is shining, friends and family are set to gather for an outing. Laughter and stories are being exchanged, and tasty food is consumed. Pictures are taken of people smiling and acting silly, and posted on Facebook to share so those who weren't able to make it can add their goofy comments. One of the joys of the online world: we can so quickly include our friends and families in our activities even though they may live miles, and even continents, away. When we see them next it doesn't feel like it may have been as long as it has been since we've been able to keep up with their lives. We've viewed pictures of nieces and nephews as they've grown from infancy, kids of friends celebrated as stars on their middle school softball teams. We've seen announcements of upcoming weddings or been reminded of a forgotten birthday. When I was growing up we depended on letters and rare phone calls to find out what was happening, and often what we learned was out of date and limited.
But now, in an online instant, the day can change from joy to sorrow. Opening Facebook after posting a photo to see if anyone has commented and instead finding a post from a friend that a mutual friend has died. Within minutes the word spreads to all who knew him and the grief is shared. Staying connected in the online world means we know more people and stay in more frequent contact with them. We get glimpses into their lives we would otherwise miss, and for me, it means I am more likely to go out of my way to visit them when I am anywhere near them. Someone who would have been a passing hello at a conference or event I might attend has become a friend, linked through the internet.
At the church I attended while my children were growing up they had a ritual called the Sharing of Joys and Sorrows. Anyone wishing to speak went to the front of the sanctuary where there were two vases filled with flowers. You simply moved a flower from one vase to the other and shared your news. The belief behind the ritual was that a joy shared was amplified and a sorrow shared eased the burden. I found both to be true whenever I felt moved to speak or listened to the heartbreaks and joys of others. Weddings, baptisms, birthdays and funerals provide the same opportunity to tell our stories and hear the impact others have had on us. But distance means we can't always attend those events.
The immediacy of seeing the shared pain of those who knew and were now grieving the loss of our friend both intensified my own pain and somehow lessened it. Reading their reactions made it real in a way I wish I could still deny. Knowing I was not alone, knowing the community he touched was equally stunned by his sudden passing brought a tiny sense of comfort that those in my day to day environment couldn't fully understand. They could offer sympathy to me, but the connection via the online community who actually knew him, and knew the impact of this on the lives of those closest to him, meant so much more. Being able to reach across the world and tell stories perhaps has become part of the ritual of sharing joys and sorrows. It may be the best we can do when we can't be there in person.
But now, in an online instant, the day can change from joy to sorrow. Opening Facebook after posting a photo to see if anyone has commented and instead finding a post from a friend that a mutual friend has died. Within minutes the word spreads to all who knew him and the grief is shared. Staying connected in the online world means we know more people and stay in more frequent contact with them. We get glimpses into their lives we would otherwise miss, and for me, it means I am more likely to go out of my way to visit them when I am anywhere near them. Someone who would have been a passing hello at a conference or event I might attend has become a friend, linked through the internet.
At the church I attended while my children were growing up they had a ritual called the Sharing of Joys and Sorrows. Anyone wishing to speak went to the front of the sanctuary where there were two vases filled with flowers. You simply moved a flower from one vase to the other and shared your news. The belief behind the ritual was that a joy shared was amplified and a sorrow shared eased the burden. I found both to be true whenever I felt moved to speak or listened to the heartbreaks and joys of others. Weddings, baptisms, birthdays and funerals provide the same opportunity to tell our stories and hear the impact others have had on us. But distance means we can't always attend those events.
The immediacy of seeing the shared pain of those who knew and were now grieving the loss of our friend both intensified my own pain and somehow lessened it. Reading their reactions made it real in a way I wish I could still deny. Knowing I was not alone, knowing the community he touched was equally stunned by his sudden passing brought a tiny sense of comfort that those in my day to day environment couldn't fully understand. They could offer sympathy to me, but the connection via the online community who actually knew him, and knew the impact of this on the lives of those closest to him, meant so much more. Being able to reach across the world and tell stories perhaps has become part of the ritual of sharing joys and sorrows. It may be the best we can do when we can't be there in person.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
We go where we are looking
Riding a motorcycle is thrilling. With nothing to block my view or my senses I am fully immersed in my surroundings and feel an immediacy with everything I do. The feedback is instantaneous. If I make a mistake, I know it right away. Things happen quickly, and on more than one occasion I have found myself on the ground wondering how I got there. Luckily, most of those times have been while at a standstill, damaging only my ego and sparing my body.
One of the hardest lessons about riding for me was how seriously the message 'you go where you look' is. I sailed through my Motorcycle Safety Foundation class, passing my license endorsement test with ease and felt confident with my abilities as I went off on my first solo rides. Everything was great, right up until I had to make a right turn from a complete stop. I have been driving cars since I was fifteen and have never had a problem making a turn. Suddenly, I found myself lying on the road with a large motorcycle on top of me. How in the world did that happen? One minute I was having fun, the next I was thankful my daughter was following me in our car so she could help lift the beast off of me and watch me get going again.
The third time it happened I began to be fearful of the bike and my confidence, once so certain, was now shattered. I began to avoid riding, and finally made the decision to sell the bike. A part of me was relieved, but another part was disappointed in myself for giving up. I struggled with the two competing voices, hating the idea of allowing my fear to dictate my actions. Finally facing my avoidance, I returned to the dealer and tried a scooter, something recommended by a friend who loved hers. On the test drive I once again found myself on the ground after yet another right turn gone awry. But rather than walking away, I got back in the saddle and rode it the rest of the way home, and fell in love with the feeling of riding solo once again. We bought the Majesty, a 400cc bike capable of freeway speeds and longer rides.
So what is it about right turns? The way it works is you have to turn your head to look where you want to go, accelerate, and trust that the bike will go where you want it to go. Sounds simple, but in practice, at least for me in the beginning, harder to do. Why? Because it's so tempting to look elsewhere...straight ahead, slightly right but not far enough...not trusting the full turn necessary to make it happen. One glance in the wrong direction and the bike will go that way. I had to learn to fully commit to looking where I wanted to go before I stopped falling over.
How does this play out in life? We go where we are looking. Our intentions may be otherwise, but in reality, what we pay attention to determines where we live our lives. While I am focusing on fear, I am not taking risks. When fear dominated my experience of motorcycling, the avoidance of that fear determined my actions. By focusing instead on what I care about, and continually bringing my attention back to what I care about, I move towards what I want instead of away from it.
Are right turns still scary? Occasionally, yes. But what I have noticed over time is that rather than paying attention to the details of how to make a right turn (push the handlebar on the right side away from you and the bike will lean right) I focus on simply looking where I want to go and the rest happens naturally.
One of the hardest lessons about riding for me was how seriously the message 'you go where you look' is. I sailed through my Motorcycle Safety Foundation class, passing my license endorsement test with ease and felt confident with my abilities as I went off on my first solo rides. Everything was great, right up until I had to make a right turn from a complete stop. I have been driving cars since I was fifteen and have never had a problem making a turn. Suddenly, I found myself lying on the road with a large motorcycle on top of me. How in the world did that happen? One minute I was having fun, the next I was thankful my daughter was following me in our car so she could help lift the beast off of me and watch me get going again.
The third time it happened I began to be fearful of the bike and my confidence, once so certain, was now shattered. I began to avoid riding, and finally made the decision to sell the bike. A part of me was relieved, but another part was disappointed in myself for giving up. I struggled with the two competing voices, hating the idea of allowing my fear to dictate my actions. Finally facing my avoidance, I returned to the dealer and tried a scooter, something recommended by a friend who loved hers. On the test drive I once again found myself on the ground after yet another right turn gone awry. But rather than walking away, I got back in the saddle and rode it the rest of the way home, and fell in love with the feeling of riding solo once again. We bought the Majesty, a 400cc bike capable of freeway speeds and longer rides.
So what is it about right turns? The way it works is you have to turn your head to look where you want to go, accelerate, and trust that the bike will go where you want it to go. Sounds simple, but in practice, at least for me in the beginning, harder to do. Why? Because it's so tempting to look elsewhere...straight ahead, slightly right but not far enough...not trusting the full turn necessary to make it happen. One glance in the wrong direction and the bike will go that way. I had to learn to fully commit to looking where I wanted to go before I stopped falling over.
How does this play out in life? We go where we are looking. Our intentions may be otherwise, but in reality, what we pay attention to determines where we live our lives. While I am focusing on fear, I am not taking risks. When fear dominated my experience of motorcycling, the avoidance of that fear determined my actions. By focusing instead on what I care about, and continually bringing my attention back to what I care about, I move towards what I want instead of away from it.
Are right turns still scary? Occasionally, yes. But what I have noticed over time is that rather than paying attention to the details of how to make a right turn (push the handlebar on the right side away from you and the bike will lean right) I focus on simply looking where I want to go and the rest happens naturally.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Letting Go
I have witnessed death first hand three times now. Twice it has been my choice to let a beloved pet go, knowing it was kinder to be with them when the vet helped them pass on rather than watching them be further tormented by illness. The third time was with my grandfather, having spent three days with him, watching as he faded from this world once we made the decision to withhold all nutrients, including water, while we placed him on a morphine drip to prevent him from suffering in his final hours. In all three cases I felt privileged to be part of their passing.
There is always the wondering. Did we do enough? Did we miss something earlier that would have prevented this moment? Is this what they would have wanted if they had the choice? Ultimately, I have to be willing to live with the decisions I was part of making, knowing they came from my heart. My mind wants to revisit every step of the process, yet that only brings me pain. I don't need to remember the final days to know I will deeply miss those who have passed.
Instead I bring my attention to the joys they brought to my life. The memories of long conversations with my grandfather. His love and support for me throughout my awkward growing up years. His excitement when I made him a great-grandfather for the first time, and his pride when my second child was a boy (yes, he was still a bit paternalistic). Thinking about the many times I sat through his endless slide shows and stories of his worldly travels, all the while his passion for adventure was seeping into my very being. The lessons he taught of being a loving husband to his adored wife Amy have carried on in me as I care for her as she declines into the hell that is Alzheimer's.
And my pets. Yes, I have had many throughout the years. I am surprised how easily I fall in love with the newest member of our family as each arrives. Their arrival is usually because another has departed, but they are not a replacement. They are an expression of the love each has brought into my life and the desire to continue to experience that companionship, affection and amusement that my animals have taught me in their unique ways. Sharing the pain of the loss with the stories of their lives eases the suffering just a bit.
But ultimately I believe it is the willingness to feel the pain of someone's passing, whether a dear friend, family member, life partner, or beloved pet, that frees me to love fully. The sadness of loss reminds me that I have felt deeply, and I wouldn't give that up for anything.
There is always the wondering. Did we do enough? Did we miss something earlier that would have prevented this moment? Is this what they would have wanted if they had the choice? Ultimately, I have to be willing to live with the decisions I was part of making, knowing they came from my heart. My mind wants to revisit every step of the process, yet that only brings me pain. I don't need to remember the final days to know I will deeply miss those who have passed.
Instead I bring my attention to the joys they brought to my life. The memories of long conversations with my grandfather. His love and support for me throughout my awkward growing up years. His excitement when I made him a great-grandfather for the first time, and his pride when my second child was a boy (yes, he was still a bit paternalistic). Thinking about the many times I sat through his endless slide shows and stories of his worldly travels, all the while his passion for adventure was seeping into my very being. The lessons he taught of being a loving husband to his adored wife Amy have carried on in me as I care for her as she declines into the hell that is Alzheimer's.
And my pets. Yes, I have had many throughout the years. I am surprised how easily I fall in love with the newest member of our family as each arrives. Their arrival is usually because another has departed, but they are not a replacement. They are an expression of the love each has brought into my life and the desire to continue to experience that companionship, affection and amusement that my animals have taught me in their unique ways. Sharing the pain of the loss with the stories of their lives eases the suffering just a bit.
But ultimately I believe it is the willingness to feel the pain of someone's passing, whether a dear friend, family member, life partner, or beloved pet, that frees me to love fully. The sadness of loss reminds me that I have felt deeply, and I wouldn't give that up for anything.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Fear
It always surprises me when I get on my bicycle and I feel a bit of anxiety. I've been riding since I was five years old, never had more than a minor fall, never been injured riding, yet the anxiety is there. When I take the time to listen to it, it's saying 'what if you can't keep up with everyone,' 'what if you can't get your foot out of the clips in time and you fall,' 'what if you want to turn around before everyone else and they think you're a wimp,' and on and on. In the past I've spent quite a bit of time talking myself out of each statement, only to find the next time I get on the bike those voices are with me once again. How silly is that?
The same voices show up even when I go to an indoor cycling class where the odds of falling off are remote, to say the least. I know I can choose to ride at whatever pace I want and no one will know the difference. I can even pretend to adjust the resistance to look like I am pedaling up the same steep hill as everyone else and they are none the wiser. Yet the fear comes with me. It was there this morning when I thought about joining a new strength training class at my gym...'what if I can't do it?' 'what if I look stupid?' I went anyway.
The voices follow me into other areas as well...every time I start off on a run, every time I climb on the back of the motorcycle with Terry, as well as when I get on my own scooter to ride solo. And not just in athletic arenas...those voices pop into my head before I meet someone new, or have to call a potential client, even when they called me first. They show up all over the place, uninvited and unwelcome.
The fear comes with me, even knowing I am competent and capable. Even with all my years of experience successfully navigating difficult situations and surviving them with perhaps a few scars and some good stories to tell. I've finally quit wondering when the voices will stop and I will be able to hop onto the bike with only silence as my companion.
My prediction? Never. Clients come to me all the time wanting their anxiety to go away. How in the world can I help them eliminate something that shows up so regularly for me? I've stopped bothering trying. Instead, I share what I have learned...to give up the struggle and find room for the fear to just tag along, the pesky younger sibling who won't quit hanging around.
And what have I discovered? Sometimes that pesky sibling fades into the background, and other times it offers some amusing, unexpected insights. But mostly I've discovered that it's easier to let it be than to spend my energy fighting it. So now when I get on the bike I invite the anxiety to ride along with me if it wants to, and instead focus my energy on getting myself settled in for a nice ride, breathing in the fresh air, and noticing the sights and sounds around me. Makes for a much better ride.
The same voices show up even when I go to an indoor cycling class where the odds of falling off are remote, to say the least. I know I can choose to ride at whatever pace I want and no one will know the difference. I can even pretend to adjust the resistance to look like I am pedaling up the same steep hill as everyone else and they are none the wiser. Yet the fear comes with me. It was there this morning when I thought about joining a new strength training class at my gym...'what if I can't do it?' 'what if I look stupid?' I went anyway.
The voices follow me into other areas as well...every time I start off on a run, every time I climb on the back of the motorcycle with Terry, as well as when I get on my own scooter to ride solo. And not just in athletic arenas...those voices pop into my head before I meet someone new, or have to call a potential client, even when they called me first. They show up all over the place, uninvited and unwelcome.
The fear comes with me, even knowing I am competent and capable. Even with all my years of experience successfully navigating difficult situations and surviving them with perhaps a few scars and some good stories to tell. I've finally quit wondering when the voices will stop and I will be able to hop onto the bike with only silence as my companion.
My prediction? Never. Clients come to me all the time wanting their anxiety to go away. How in the world can I help them eliminate something that shows up so regularly for me? I've stopped bothering trying. Instead, I share what I have learned...to give up the struggle and find room for the fear to just tag along, the pesky younger sibling who won't quit hanging around.
And what have I discovered? Sometimes that pesky sibling fades into the background, and other times it offers some amusing, unexpected insights. But mostly I've discovered that it's easier to let it be than to spend my energy fighting it. So now when I get on the bike I invite the anxiety to ride along with me if it wants to, and instead focus my energy on getting myself settled in for a nice ride, breathing in the fresh air, and noticing the sights and sounds around me. Makes for a much better ride.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Pillion's Perspective...linking my writing for the Iron Butt Magazine, my book, Two-Up: Navigating a Relationship 1,000 Miles at a Time, and my life as a therapist into one narrative. Allowing it to evolve as the story unfolds, removing restrictions that may limit it to only motorcycling or only therapy but instead topics that interest me. The freedom of the road, the freedom of writing, the freedom to let my mind wander.
Terry and I were walking the other day and discussing the next phase of our life together. He has started a new career path, and after 30+ years of being a therapist, I am open to new possibilities myself. I love my work and I continue to be moved by the people who allow me to touch their lives in such a personal manner. Logically, teaching would be a next step, yet creating workshops and following curricula to fulfill someone's idea of continuing education sounds horrible. What I keep coming back to is writing, weaving the stories I have in my head from all the experiences I have had personally and the ones I have been witness to in the confines of my therapy office into useful narratives, narratives that have helped shape my own life.
The stories that interest me are of resilience, finding strength in going to the deepest levels of oneself, being willing to take a look in the mirror and confront what one sees in the reflection. Participating in life rather than spectating. Taking risks and feeling alive. Taking the thoughts that bounce around inside my head and committing them to paper where they can be judged by others and perhaps found wanting. Yet in that risk is excitement, a feeling of living life fully.
And so I will write.
Terry and I were walking the other day and discussing the next phase of our life together. He has started a new career path, and after 30+ years of being a therapist, I am open to new possibilities myself. I love my work and I continue to be moved by the people who allow me to touch their lives in such a personal manner. Logically, teaching would be a next step, yet creating workshops and following curricula to fulfill someone's idea of continuing education sounds horrible. What I keep coming back to is writing, weaving the stories I have in my head from all the experiences I have had personally and the ones I have been witness to in the confines of my therapy office into useful narratives, narratives that have helped shape my own life.
The stories that interest me are of resilience, finding strength in going to the deepest levels of oneself, being willing to take a look in the mirror and confront what one sees in the reflection. Participating in life rather than spectating. Taking risks and feeling alive. Taking the thoughts that bounce around inside my head and committing them to paper where they can be judged by others and perhaps found wanting. Yet in that risk is excitement, a feeling of living life fully.
And so I will write.
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