Elisabeth Writing

I crashed my bike yesterday, and it taught me a lesson. 

But let’s back up. 

Midwest spring means blooms turning their shy faces to the burgeoning strength of the sun. Leaves begin to adorn the dryad’s branches, like ladies with lovely new hats, preening and clucking at one another. I like to sit in a patch of light and stretch, waiting for invisible fey kisses to mark my nose and cheeks. I can almost feel winter cobwebs drifting away  like spun sugar clouds in a gentle breeze. I can feel a smile gracing my face with the banishment of the grey landscape. I love it here in the spring. 

I also like to ride my bike, watching the flight of birds and the reflection of the woods in the brassy creek. It’s the closest I’ve come to flying, when I’m speeding down a hill with a shit eating grin on my face. 

Yesterday was no exception. I was mourning the sunny day, now turned to a heavy barrage of rain. I wanted to go flying on my bike, but it seemed my plans had gone awry. I ran some errands and was about to turn back towards home when the skies broke free and everything turned pearlescent. I chewed on my lip for a second, wondering if I was going to turn back towards the bike trail and brave the muddy puddles, when I mumbled: “Fuck it.” 

I sighed a bit as I passed through the puddles and felt dirt and water speckling my skin. I stood high on the pedals and tried to get as little on me as possible, mumbling to myself that I’d need a shower when I got back, annoyed with myself for taking this path after all that rain, but I persisted. It wasn’t enough to make me turn back. I needed the rays on my skin, few as they might be, and I really wanted to coast down a hill and pretend that my gossamer wings were fluttering, about to take off. 

I don’t know when my attitude changed. I think it was a branch hanging low over the path, like a sage green gateway, and I bent low on the bike, pretending that if it touched me I’d burst into flames. I started giggling as I just barely missed the gnarled fingers covered in moss and ivy. It was child-like, and I suppose there was a part of me which yearned for that. I started to stand tall to brush the leaves above my head, laughing in delight at honeysuckle caressing me. Instead of avoiding the puddles, I rode right into the middle of them, shrieking like a child as I got soaked in splatters of rain and debris. It was so… fun. Innocent, and fun. I didn’t realize I’d needed it so badly. 

Then… the crash.

There were two pre-teen boys on the path, and I was trying to pass them. One would go left, one would go right, until I was confused about which way to go. I said, “I’m sorry, excuse me,” and I went to the right as they’d given me a small opening. Then, the boy on the right moved to the right. I knew I was either going to hit him, or I’d have to veer sharply and fall on the side of the path. I chose not to hurt someone else, and slid to the right, shouting without thought: “SHIT!” The bike was on top of me, my heart was pounding, and I was scraped and bloody on my hands and ankle. The boys were extremely apologetic, asking if I needed help, if I was ok. I was a bit shaky, but I told them I was fine and thanked them for checking. Another couple rushed forward, asking if I was alright. My hands were trembling and slightly red but I smiled tremulously and nodded my head, also thanking them for their kindness. And then, after taking a deep breath, I got back up on the bike. I was miles away from my car, what else was I supposed to do? It was as I was biking home though, that I realized the lessons in this ride. 

1. Acting child-like, full of wonder and fun, is vital to healing and growth. I knew this of course in a purely practical sense, but when was the last time I got purposely muddy? When was the last time I climbed a tree for the hell of it (which I can still do very well, thank you very much)? When was the last time that I squealed and pretended I was a mermaid delving into the depths of the ocean, only surfacing when a handsome sailor was peering down into the home of my quiet depths? When was the last time I listened to music from my childhood and danced without embarrassment? The answer was, far too long. 
2. When kids are hurt, they’re quite resilient. They cry for a bit until they’re bandaged up, and then they run back to their friends with a Barbie bandage on their knee, which they proudly show off. They bounce back quickly from all manner of injuries, whether physical or emotional. And it’s only as we age, when those hurts become deeper and more frequent, that we become afraid of that pain. Sometimes we don’t take risks for fear of the consequences. I’ve been that person. I’ve got scars all over my body from falling out of trees, motorcycles, oven burns, and more. I have been cut open by grief. I’ve been stung by rejection more times than I could ever count. I’ve wept alone in bed from bipolar depression or loss. And when did I become so afraid of feeling any of these things? My lesson was that, after all of those things, I survived. There was a question sometimes of if I would survive it, especially with my alcoholism, or when my father died, but I did. It wasn’t easy. It fucking sucked, actually. But I kept getting up. We’ve all done that. I know this seems like another “no shit” kind of lesson, but when I made myself get back on the bike? When I rode back and kept riding into puddles and dirt? When I rose up and snatched a flower? I realized that I can be innocent, vulnerable and resilient, too. I could be just like I was when I was a child, climbing fearlessly on the jungle gym even with a swollen ankle and scratches on my forearm. 

As a child I was almost fearless. I would gaze longingly at the object of my adoration, not even an ounce of  embarrassment within me. I would draw without fear of criticism, and tell stories that were full of emotion and wings and kittens. I wore whatever the hell I wanted:  blue eyeshadow or velvet pants or butterfly clips. I climbed up to the treehouse of the neighbors and pelted the boys with loquats. I begged to chase hurricanes so I could see the rise of all that grisly power. And here I sit, wondering: where did I lose that courage? When did I, and why? I guess it doesn’t matter when or how or why, only that I did. 

And now? I want to get it back. So I’ll make flower crowns and sing, I’ll wear the pink vinyl boots that have been gathering dust in my closet, I’ll go rolling down the grassy hill just to see how far I make it, I’ll let ladybugs crawl over my knees and into my hair, I’ll make the weird noises that make people give me looks, and I won’t be ashamed of my writing, even the really embarrassing bits. 

So… thanks for the crash, universe? I guess you’re still watching over me, in sometimes painful and awkward ways meant to awaken me to epiphanies…