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.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)