So, I'm officially nervous. In five days, I start my 545 mile bike ride through California. And, today, I am sick. I've been feeling not-so-good since Sunday. Maybe it's the nerves. Maybe it's still that the school year just ended (relatively speaking). Or maybe I'm just sick. Whatever it is, it's really not helping with the nerves.
But, if I've learned one thing in my life it's that freaking out never helps. So, I'm letting the upset tummy and lethargy serve as a guide to rest, to store up strength, to prepare for the big ride. It won't be easy. I know that. But, I've trained all I possibly could and now this is mine to face. I'll be there with 2500 other riders who have worked hard and raised money relentlessly for months, but it will only be my internal store of strength and belief in myself that will carry me through that week and those miles. Well, and my assortment of Lara Bars.
So, I have some butterflies making a bit of a racket in my tummy. I would be concerned if they weren't! I've always fed off of nervous energy, seeing the tensing muscles and fluttering mind as a sign of my own cache of energy, ready to burst forth. As the days pass, I'm sure I'll get more and more nervous, building more and more energy. Hopefully, right when I need it, it will propel me into action. But, for now, the lethargy is holding me (and my energy) captive in my best friend's apartment in Denver. With hours of netflix and my big, fluffy dog. I can't help but see that this life is good.
Wish me luck. And, if you haven't donated to my participation yet, throw a few bones my way. Donate here.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Fighting Demons
I've been watching an inordinate amount of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Well, and Angel, the spin-off. As a child, I never watched the show. We didn't have television when I was a wee one and I think that perhaps it might have been a little too over my head, though I have a great number of friends who are my age and watched the show when it came out.
Watching the show fifteen years after it came out, I cannot believe how much I love it. A tiny blonde girl kicking serious demonic tail. She whines a lot, broods about, and continually pushes people away. And, I love her. I am compelled to defend Buffy when I talk to friends about the show and for someone who really hates television about high school (I did not really love it when I was there, so not a huge fan of re-living it), I cannot stop watching. I don't want to.
Buffy has special powers. She is special. Her gift and her duty is to fight vampires and evil, but it also means she has to fight evil. There are times where she tries to change her calling, or to avoid fighting, but she is always called back. Sometimes her friends and family need her protection and sometimes evil comes to her doorstep. There are innumerable waves of demons she must face. But, even the worst evil that is outside of her cannot compare to what she fights inside.
She has to come to terms with her gifts and responsibility while continuing to develop as a person. She must learn to rely on the people around her. She must learn to love and trust her family and her friends. She must learn that what is inside her, her own strength, is the only thing that will carry her through the darkest nights and battles. She cannot do it alone, yet she must learn to harness her own inner strength. The demons inside her remind me of St. Teresa's book The Interior Castle, where the scariest thing one must face lies within.
Maybe it is no coincidence or surprise that at this time in my life where I am trying to understand my own self and my calling in life that I have stumbled upon Buffy and her interior struggle. I am busy fighting my own demons both within and without. Coming to terms with what gifts I might have, what my connection to my friends and family means, and what my "call" might look like (Good lord...I've been in Divinity School for entirely too long)--all this seems to be reflected in the story of Buffy and her friends.
But as for me, why be mysterious? Why not come clean to my loyal audience? Well, suspense is what brings the fun to life (and makes someone compulsively watch television). I guess you'll just have to tune in again soon to know what I'm thinking and what form it takes. For once, I'm taking time arrange my hand, holding my cards close to my chest until the moment is right. But, I promise, eventually the time will come when I have to be all in. But until then, my chips and my time are precious and I won't go wasting either on anything but a full house.
Watching the show fifteen years after it came out, I cannot believe how much I love it. A tiny blonde girl kicking serious demonic tail. She whines a lot, broods about, and continually pushes people away. And, I love her. I am compelled to defend Buffy when I talk to friends about the show and for someone who really hates television about high school (I did not really love it when I was there, so not a huge fan of re-living it), I cannot stop watching. I don't want to.
Buffy has special powers. She is special. Her gift and her duty is to fight vampires and evil, but it also means she has to fight evil. There are times where she tries to change her calling, or to avoid fighting, but she is always called back. Sometimes her friends and family need her protection and sometimes evil comes to her doorstep. There are innumerable waves of demons she must face. But, even the worst evil that is outside of her cannot compare to what she fights inside.
She has to come to terms with her gifts and responsibility while continuing to develop as a person. She must learn to rely on the people around her. She must learn to love and trust her family and her friends. She must learn that what is inside her, her own strength, is the only thing that will carry her through the darkest nights and battles. She cannot do it alone, yet she must learn to harness her own inner strength. The demons inside her remind me of St. Teresa's book The Interior Castle, where the scariest thing one must face lies within.
Maybe it is no coincidence or surprise that at this time in my life where I am trying to understand my own self and my calling in life that I have stumbled upon Buffy and her interior struggle. I am busy fighting my own demons both within and without. Coming to terms with what gifts I might have, what my connection to my friends and family means, and what my "call" might look like (Good lord...I've been in Divinity School for entirely too long)--all this seems to be reflected in the story of Buffy and her friends.
But as for me, why be mysterious? Why not come clean to my loyal audience? Well, suspense is what brings the fun to life (and makes someone compulsively watch television). I guess you'll just have to tune in again soon to know what I'm thinking and what form it takes. For once, I'm taking time arrange my hand, holding my cards close to my chest until the moment is right. But, I promise, eventually the time will come when I have to be all in. But until then, my chips and my time are precious and I won't go wasting either on anything but a full house.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Mist
I've always believed that there are certain days I feel older. They are not frequent, but they are real. For the first time in my life, such a day has fallen on my birthday. I am 25 today. A quarter of a century lived. A half of a graduate degree finished. A whole life lived daily. An expansive heart, ready for adventure.
For the last three years on my birthday, I have gotten up early to watch the sun rise. In Colorado, it was on top of the chapel, facing Pike's Peak. The sun would come into sight and Colorado would be reborn, washed in light. This morning was much different. I rose at the appropriate hour, walked to the top of the hill behind my house and climbed the tower. From that vantage point, I have spent many nights looking out over the cities of Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston. This morning, though, all were obscured.
A thick mist has settled here. I could see no further than the stoplight by my house clearly and could only make out buildings a block further than that. Even as the sun rose higher, the mist diffused the light, keeping the world a dull gray. At first, I was saddened, wondering if I would even actually get to see the sun rise. I wondered if this is how the future looks right now, blurry and uncertain, obscured by humidity and broken light. Then more mist rolled in. I watched the clouds of moisture press into the rest of the mist. I had thought there were no way for it to become mistier, but it had. In that excess, I began to see the mist not as obstructing my view, but instead as comprising my view.
As I walked home from my sun rise celebration, I remembered that mist was part of what I loved most about Ireland. I loved the way it made the most mundane activities mystical and made belief in faeries not just possible, but requisite. Seeing the mist again through this memory, I glanced once more upon the metaphor for my future. Yes, it's unclear, but not in a despairing way. The sun is rising, infusing water and fire to light up the very air. Life is not hidden, but instead omnipresent. Taking mist as the object of my gaze, I begin to see that the future is not some scary place out there, but instead a time and space as close to me as the curtains of water droplets welcoming me into the second quarter century of my life.
For the last three years on my birthday, I have gotten up early to watch the sun rise. In Colorado, it was on top of the chapel, facing Pike's Peak. The sun would come into sight and Colorado would be reborn, washed in light. This morning was much different. I rose at the appropriate hour, walked to the top of the hill behind my house and climbed the tower. From that vantage point, I have spent many nights looking out over the cities of Somerville, Cambridge, and Boston. This morning, though, all were obscured.
A thick mist has settled here. I could see no further than the stoplight by my house clearly and could only make out buildings a block further than that. Even as the sun rose higher, the mist diffused the light, keeping the world a dull gray. At first, I was saddened, wondering if I would even actually get to see the sun rise. I wondered if this is how the future looks right now, blurry and uncertain, obscured by humidity and broken light. Then more mist rolled in. I watched the clouds of moisture press into the rest of the mist. I had thought there were no way for it to become mistier, but it had. In that excess, I began to see the mist not as obstructing my view, but instead as comprising my view.
As I walked home from my sun rise celebration, I remembered that mist was part of what I loved most about Ireland. I loved the way it made the most mundane activities mystical and made belief in faeries not just possible, but requisite. Seeing the mist again through this memory, I glanced once more upon the metaphor for my future. Yes, it's unclear, but not in a despairing way. The sun is rising, infusing water and fire to light up the very air. Life is not hidden, but instead omnipresent. Taking mist as the object of my gaze, I begin to see that the future is not some scary place out there, but instead a time and space as close to me as the curtains of water droplets welcoming me into the second quarter century of my life.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Miles of Appreciation
Yesterday as I left my house to go for a ride, I slipped a chain. Somehow my chain had gotten beneath the little rubber piece that is supposed to keep the chain from getting that low. Ridiculous. I figured this out about a block from my house, so I pulled over and tried to see if I could just yank the chain through. Anyone with any finesse in this world should be appalled at my tactics, but I grew up with a lot of brawn and little patience. For the most part, I don't live from that place anymore, but when I feel without direction, boom. I'm right back at ten-year-old, red in the face with anger, fighting back tears Sierra, trying to force the chain through. Luckily I remembered that I am (almost) 25 and not ten any longer, so I took a deep breath and assessed the situation.
I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.
I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.
I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.
My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?
So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.
I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.
I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.
I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.
My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?
So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.
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