It has now been five months since I made the decision to take a year (or as long as required) off school to hit the 'refresh' button, clean the scratchy CD with the edge of a t-shirt, and compost the organic matter of my existence into something healthier, freer, and more like the person I want to be.
The decision was made on a couch in a dark room as I stared up at a spinning ceiling fan, crying and likely talking to myself out loud. I had once again returned from a bicycle tour both shaken and stirred. I was in a miserable state of longing for the split-second of my lifetime that had taken me some five hundred miles to gorgeous Yosemite National Forest with beautiful souls in cycling shorts. I wanted nothing more than to feel the way I did on that, and every tour I have been on, for more than one meager week at a time. Since the first tour, I have dreamed of where I might go "after I graduate", "some day" or "in the future," those imprecise deadlines that never come unless we insist they do.
But there on that couch, less than an hour after arriving home from my latest adventure, I gave myself permission to do it again, but without limits. I gave myself permission to escape so that I might breathe properly again. To take a chance and do something that might teach me something not found in a text book.
A 3.83 GPA student for years, yet barely able to focus through the end of the semester, I clung with determination to the vision I began to dream for myself. I reluctantly sobbed onto older friends' shoulders and attempted to calmly explain my rationale to the ones who raised me. Days after one of the most challenging decisions I have yet made, I wrote this:
March 29, 2010
I'm sitting in a chair in the corner of the BMU [at CSU, Chico]. A quick glance around my surroundings conjures images of corporate advertisement, televisions no one is watching, packaged food, toxic chemicals, locked doors, and technological dependence.
[Daniel Quinn's] Ishmael by my side, I was here to do an assignment, but I'm thinking about my friends instead. I keep daydreaming about my newly chosen path: a journey on my bicycle around California, learning building, farming, animal husbandry skills and life experience of the highest quality. It will be like Into the Wild except I'm staying local and hopefully won't be eating any poisonous plants. I feel gratitude for the events and people who have made my visions of escape within my grasp and who have helped me help myself by showing me I am capable of more than I thought.
The people I immediately think of ride bicycles, often long distances. Many of them prefer facial hair. Some ride absurdly long bicycles with too much stuff on them. Some of them work with flowers, with vegetables, with compost. Some dance and sing and play musical instruments, some tell stories around campfires and whisper "I love you" . Some bring me socks when my feet are cold, some show me how to use power tools, some massage my back while I am chopping vegetables, some tell me I'm beautiful when I don't believe it, some talk to cows, sing to cauliflower, carry their garbage for weeks at a time [for the Zero Waste Challenge], rant about 'society' and let me do the same, and some simply acknowledge that I exist. All of them give me permission to shine my brightest. They say, "Yes, you can". And I can.
My Great Escape is still a very long way away, but I'm preparing my mind now, because despite how far I've come, I still must overcome my doubts, disregard "better judgment" and reject the idea that the most respectable, educated people are the ones who receive diplomas [although I believe I will eventually do the same].
I want to learn the hard way; it builds character and is a lot more exciting. 100% Authenticity.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Why I Ride
As I pedaled my way out of Oroville on my beloved [and over-burdened] bicycle, having just gambled for the first time, having stopped at the Feather River fish hatchery information center where I finally came to understand the highly unnatural human 'intervention' in ecosystems that hydroelectric dams require, and having just glanced over at the towering Buttes that had been previously hidden from view by the man's seemingly structural genius, a huge smile erupted from within my face.
I thought about the last few days' adventures, a mixed concoction of sweat, wild nature, and cars, cars, logging trucks, and more cars.
A sensible person would have driven a vehicle from the valley to the Regional Rainbow Gathering in the mountains on a hot summer weekend, because a sensible person wants to get to their destination in an hour and a half, not six and a half hours on the saddle, and six hours of badly-needed rest breaks. A sensible person does not cycle laboriously through 111 degree mid-July heat on curving mountain roads, nor do they wear red monarch butterfly capes and zebra-print mini skirts over padded shorts. But a sensible person has far fewer stories to tell than long-distance touring cyclists.
Without a car, everywhere I travel can become its own adventure with extreme highs and lows both geographically and emotionally. Because I cannot speed through anyplace, I can't help but notice my surroundings. The unexpected becomes the norm, and the unexpected is what keeps living beings from sinking into the death bed of dullness.
At Gold Country Casino, an impulsive detour, I strolled through a maze of bright flashing lights and and expressionless, empty gazes that watched them, hoping for a big win that might make today a little less dull. Almost as soon as I entered, a tiny white-haired woman touched my arm and half-whispered to me, "Dear, I just wanted to tell you how attractive I think you are. I just love your pretty shawl and just had to come over here and tell you how nice you look!"
I thanked her and explained that the butterfly wings help me glide up hills faster. I think I must be the first young person she'd seen in awhile.
Being a thrift queen as always, I decided to try my luck on an entire dollar, and in a flash of colored lights and repetitive jingles, it had disappeared before I understood the game I was playing. They don't let you use coins anymore, and the pull-handle didn't work. Nevertheless, no money wasted since I made myself an iced coffee from the Complimentary Drinks section.
I had only been away for a few days, but looking back on the ebb and flow of my experiences, from the excitement of leaving town with my friend Karen, to the frustration of infinite climbing, to the exhaustion of summer heat, to the worry of running out of water, to the relief of a fresh water spring, to the joy and danger of speeding downhill, to the beauty of sudden glimpses of vistas and blooming flowers, to the feeling of accomplishment and happy reunions, how much longer it seemed I had been gone!
There are some minutes and hours when I am touring that I question my sensibility in choosing a form of transportation that makes everything more complicated, more difficult, more physically demanding, and more dangerous...
But the rest of the time, you'll see me --cape fluttering in the wind, lips mouthing the words to my favorite singing-songs, sweat beads rolling off my cheeks, and legs pumping to the rhythm of the universe-- smiling from eyes to toes and back.
Isn't it great to be alive?
I thought about the last few days' adventures, a mixed concoction of sweat, wild nature, and cars, cars, logging trucks, and more cars.
A sensible person would have driven a vehicle from the valley to the Regional Rainbow Gathering in the mountains on a hot summer weekend, because a sensible person wants to get to their destination in an hour and a half, not six and a half hours on the saddle, and six hours of badly-needed rest breaks. A sensible person does not cycle laboriously through 111 degree mid-July heat on curving mountain roads, nor do they wear red monarch butterfly capes and zebra-print mini skirts over padded shorts. But a sensible person has far fewer stories to tell than long-distance touring cyclists.
Without a car, everywhere I travel can become its own adventure with extreme highs and lows both geographically and emotionally. Because I cannot speed through anyplace, I can't help but notice my surroundings. The unexpected becomes the norm, and the unexpected is what keeps living beings from sinking into the death bed of dullness.
At Gold Country Casino, an impulsive detour, I strolled through a maze of bright flashing lights and and expressionless, empty gazes that watched them, hoping for a big win that might make today a little less dull. Almost as soon as I entered, a tiny white-haired woman touched my arm and half-whispered to me, "Dear, I just wanted to tell you how attractive I think you are. I just love your pretty shawl and just had to come over here and tell you how nice you look!"
I thanked her and explained that the butterfly wings help me glide up hills faster. I think I must be the first young person she'd seen in awhile.
Being a thrift queen as always, I decided to try my luck on an entire dollar, and in a flash of colored lights and repetitive jingles, it had disappeared before I understood the game I was playing. They don't let you use coins anymore, and the pull-handle didn't work. Nevertheless, no money wasted since I made myself an iced coffee from the Complimentary Drinks section.
I had only been away for a few days, but looking back on the ebb and flow of my experiences, from the excitement of leaving town with my friend Karen, to the frustration of infinite climbing, to the exhaustion of summer heat, to the worry of running out of water, to the relief of a fresh water spring, to the joy and danger of speeding downhill, to the beauty of sudden glimpses of vistas and blooming flowers, to the feeling of accomplishment and happy reunions, how much longer it seemed I had been gone!
There are some minutes and hours when I am touring that I question my sensibility in choosing a form of transportation that makes everything more complicated, more difficult, more physically demanding, and more dangerous...
But the rest of the time, you'll see me --cape fluttering in the wind, lips mouthing the words to my favorite singing-songs, sweat beads rolling off my cheeks, and legs pumping to the rhythm of the universe-- smiling from eyes to toes and back.
Isn't it great to be alive?
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