Getting to Know You

Getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you,
Getting to hope you like me.

OK, so I gave "The King and I" a negative review. Doesn't mean I can't steal a few lyrics to suit my blogging purpose. Here's the deal: I bought a new road bike, a KHS Flite 232 to be exact. This was leap for me. There was nothing wrong with my trusty Specialized Rockhopper that I picked up at a yard sale for a mere $150. Talk about love at first ride. I've written about it before, that immediate connection, a sense of freedom and fun. It pays off in joy to be ignorant of what a bike is "supposed" feel like. My green mountain beauty was a bit big for my size, her nubby tires, great on gravel and dirt, were slower on the pavement where I usually rode. And I had no idea, nor did I care. Back to that question of when do we simply feel content with the life we're living? I started thinking about things like aerodynamics and speed. I started watching road bike cyclists out there on the streets, calf muscles bulging with each back pedal, sleek bodies streaking along with traffic. I thought about taking longer rides, rides beyond the potential of my beloved cycle. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind the notion of a century ride holds powerful sway. I started saving my pennies from teaching yoga toward the investment that a road bike would be.

A few weeks ago, after some searching, I found a decent little road bike at Urban Downfall, a local bike shop run by a handful of friendly college dudes who were friendly enough to answer my questions and adapt this lovely lady to fit my body. I'll go back in a few weeks, most likely, to get the pedals switched over to clipless with cleats, but even as I write this I wonder what I'm getting myself into. I didn't anticipate the ambivalence I'd feel riding this new velocipede home. First there was the learning curve--new shifting and braking mechanisms, lower handlebars, a distinct lack of shock absorption. Then, strangely, a feeling of guilt arose over betraying my perfectly good cycle sitting at home in the garage. I took her out on shy little rides at first, awkwardly attuning to the feel of the ride. Like a contact lens wearer sliding a finger up the bridge of her nose to push up non-existent glasses, I'd reach for brakes that weren't where I expected them to be. I found this bike had expectations, demanded a little more of me that my carefree, easy rider.

Ah, but we had a sweet canyon ride yesterday morning, and the relationship's on! The launch was a little slow, and my legs resisted and whined until we found ourselves, bicycle, legs, and me, all synched up on the Provo River Trail. That's when things started to get good. Transitions between gears were smooth; we had a rhythm going. The water in the river was high, birds sang or screamed everywhere, and we climbed our way gradually through the mouth of the canyon. Gliding through Nun's Park and an easy switch of gears to a very efficient ascent up the only steep section of the road--about 10 feet--until we were sailing along under the canopy of overgrown scrub oak. No crowds thronging around the base of Bridal Veil Falls, no barefoot babies or folks with cameras snapping shots of their kids wading in the water. I ignored the pedestrian only signs and breathed by to the park. There I took in three steady breaths, knowing this good, blood pulsing endorphin rush was temporary, but enjoying it all the same.

There are probably thousands of life lesson type things I could dream up and work into this blog, but I'm gonna resist the temptation to try to appear wise and let this simple ride be just what it is and nothing more. That's good enough.

A Little Help From Billy Collins

Summer vacation is here. I've had several blog posts running through my head, which is annoying. I'll be sitting, standing, or biking through an experience composing sentences all the while like a demented tour guide. I'll quote the ever charming Billy Collins.

Who said I had to always play

the secretary to the interior?

I'm delighting in horoscopes for the dead, finding the right poem for the right moment much the way a faithful Christian might close her eyes, flip The Holy Bible open, and place her finger on the verse God herself intended her to read. I'd like to share with you how "Thank You Notes" made an hour in an LDS chapel for the baby blessing of my new twin niece and nephew an enjoyable spot of afternoon, my usual resistance and defensiveness dissolved. The sentences are still floating around in my skull for that one, so maybe tomorrow. Instead, I'll share these lovely lines, and hope Collins doesn't mind my zealous appreciation for his fine way with words:

My Hero

Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line,

the tortoise has stopped once again

by the roadside,

this time to stick out his neck

and nibble a bit of sweet grass,

unlike the previous time

when he was distracted

by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower.

Took the opportunity to be distracted by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower on a walk through Liberty Park with my mom, sister, and daughters. Good times nibbling at bits of sweet grass ahead these next few months.

Under the Influence

We’re endlessly looking at how others do things, for inspiration and ideas … but we end up wanting to try those things too. That sounds harmless until you realize that you’ll buy almost anything because someone wrote about it and made it sound amazing. You’ll live a life of an endless series of purchases because of what other people are doing. And it never ends.

Even if you don’t buy stuff, you’ll change your life endlessly, based on what others are doing. You’ll give up your couch, you’ll stop buying Ikea furniture, then give up your cell phone, then give up your computer, then start doing yoga, then become a Zen monk, then create a tech startup. Those things are amazing, sure … but when does it ever end?

When do we ever feel content with the life we’re living?

I don't know, but blogger Leo Babauta asks a relevant question, and one that's been on my mind this week of exorcising demons of sweetness from my life. It comes down to an acute case of diet confusion. In a sense, diet, food, takes the place of religion in my life. I mean that. It provides a sense of structure, a group of commandments with an implicit understanding that if I follow them I'll be saved from obesity, cancer, lethargy, depression. It fills the ethics hole as well--eating plant-based, though not 100% cruelty-free, feels that way, has been touted as better for the health of the planet, too. Combine this with philosophical and political undercurrents against the trend of big-business patenting of DNA codes and exploitation of animal and human life and I have a Way of Life as opposed to a means of keeping the body alive.

Most certainly way back when, when humans were new to this game of eating, we ate whatever didn't kill us too quickly and whenever we could. So now I read so many disparate sources about how our diet reflects or doesn't our evolutionary needs, how certain ways of eating can cause our cells to resonate at higher frequencies (whatever that means), can stoke our inner digestive fire or leave food to coldly rot in the gut. I've been a diet whore, acting similarly to the way described above. I tried the Atkins and South Beach diets about 15 years ago when I was significantly overweight and depressed. I lost some weight but felt heavy and slow nonetheless. I gave it up. Went back to eating whatever and remained overweight and depressed for a few more years. I joined Oprah and Bob Green next and gave up the white stuff: sugar and starch. I ate lean meat and vegetables, few grains. Lost a LOT of weight. Started practicing yoga and riding a bike. Lost a lot more weight. Felt good. Happy. Holy Grail? I dunno. From there I refined my eating further by giving up meat. Still felt good. Happy. Even better, I felt a sense of purpose. I began to care about pesticides both for their effect on my body and on the planet. And though I'm a skeptic by nature, I have to admit that these beliefs still hold, whether they are ultimately true or not. I'm pretty sure they don't make me a better person. Occasionally I still feel a twinge of moral superiority, but not as frequently. Especially when I've seen how easy it is to get lured in by the white stuff again. (By the way, day 4 and enjoying a distinct lack of craving and persistent thoughts about my next snack.)

It's gotten a little too complicated, though. I'm ready to take it down a notch. Simplify. I'm tired of looking to experts and wondering if the diet is greener on the other side of the fence. Simplify. I'm gonna stick with this no sugar place I'm in and try to rely on my own experience to find a good sustaining balance. Simplify. That's all.

I want to end this post by sharing a stanza of Billy Collins' Thieves. Funny, when I toggled to Amazon to create the hyper-link an ad for the Kindle came up and my gut reaction was both a feeling and the thought that I gotta get me one of those. Maybe the best we can do is pray for our daily patience and then some to have a little space between us and all the influences, space in which to feel a little  contentment with the life we're living. I've read and re-read this poem recently. This stanza makes me laugh, sigh, gives me a sense of urgency, a nagging reminder about clocks and schedules, the thrill of breaking taboo to steal a moment to do nothing but sit on a rock and watch, a thirst for and a tiredness of the long song of life that ends too soon:

Give us this day our daily clock

I started to chant

as I sat on the hood of this Volkswagen of stone,

and give us our daily blood

and our daily patience and some extra patience

until we cannot stand to live any longer. 

Plates of Lettuce

My first day of recommitting to sugar-free living, yesterday, brought me into a rather pissy state. I was greeted in the faculty room by the aroma of a panful of hot, gooey, gluteny cinnamon rolls, compliments of the cafeteria. Ain't it sweet how we offer gifts that lead to ill health and bloated bodies? I walked on by like the good girl I can be, but not without a little tantrum from my inner 2nd grader. No fair! How come everybody else gets to eat cinnamon rolls? This sucks. At lunch my salad, which included almonds for good fat and protein, sounded really boring. I didn't want it. Lack of desire to go out was the only thing motivating me to sit down and eat the damn thing. At the table was a homemade lemon merengue pie. No again. Everyone else seems happy with their sugar-fest, why not me? Wah, wah, wah. At home my dinner of Buffalo tempeh (steamed tempeh covered in sugar-free hot wing sauce then baked) gave me some comfort. The high protein made me feel full, the spice convinced me I haven't consigned myself to a life of bland gustatory experience, and the steamed broccoli was sweet enough to keep me from scheming for ways to get a dessert in that wouldn't constitute cheating. I still felt pretty irritable, just not hungry and irritable.

The sun rose this morning, in spite of how the universe had conspired to make me miserable. I took it slow and easy, sitting awhile with my cat watching the light move across the tops of trees and through the blades of grass. I felt solid. Later at school I ate a balanced lunch with greens and some beans for plant-based protein. My big iced green tea was nicely bitter and I was satisfied. No fits until the faculty end-of-year dinner. The school secretary had offered (I didn't ask) to buy me, the resident vegetarian, a nice, delicious salad in lieu of the meaty fare ordered up for everyone else. I'd been looking forward to it. But, and this is totally understandable, she got so swamped printing out report cards and helping teachers square away their financial accounts, that she forgot to place the order. The regular menu included a green salad, white dinner rolls, mashed potatoes, roast beef with mushrooms, thick slabs of homemade fruit pie a la mode. To add tragedy to my already sad options, I got in line late. By the time I reached the salad, the one with the chunks of radish, cauliflower and broccoli had been served out and the caterers refilled with a big bag of Costco lettuce. Lettuce. I filled a plate with Romaine and a shred or two of carrot, squeezed a little onion dressing on the top and sat down with my colleagues. Well, yeah, I whined inside, but I drew on what little grasp I have of meditative presence, breathed and questioned the accuracy of my perceptions.  No conspiracy. It was even a little amusing to sit and watch my bruised ego bemoan the fact that it couldn't get no satisfaction. (Everybody else got some!) And I also knew that I was good just where I was, and OK not eating the rolls or potatoes or pie.

It's an uncertain business looking for dietary balance. It's a matter of intuition and changing, shifting needs and circumstances. But it isn't a tragedy. Tonight I'm feeling pretty good. I've got a date tomorrow morning with Odo to watch the sun rise, I'll spend the last morning with this year's 2nd graders, do a little clean-up in the classroom, then let the summer begin. I've got a new road bike awaiting its maiden voyage, yoga classes, family vacation, and a little space between me and a nasty habit. If that's not nice, I don't know what is.