Vulnerability

On my back, face to the sky I breathe heavily under the weight of my vulnerability. For a moment, my world has completely fallen apart. I am not invincible any longer. I am a mass of flesh crumpled on the pavement. I do not know if I am safe. Some part of me feels broken, but my mechanical frame still remains intact. I see the tires of the car that hit me from a completely novel position. For a moment a piercing silence surrounds me. Suddenly, voices.

The way I have ordered my existence, my only ritual since I was a small girl, has been writing. When routine has been destroyed by violence or displacement, I have turned to my personal rain dance--words on the page. Until the last six months or so, I have kept most of my writing to myself. The willful exposure of my wounds reinstates my control over them. By choosing to share what scares me, I can stop it from over-powering me. I am vulnerable. The ghastly bruises covering my pitiful, aching body can testify to the great betrayal I feel. I trusted this city and its drivers, for better or worse. Three days after a collision with a car, I am alright. I know I will get back on my bike and that I will be more cautious, helmeted, and a little more embittered. With time, the reality of this moment will fade. I will enforce normalcy in my life to aid in its slipping away. I will change the way I tell the story from the present tense to the past as I exercise the power of ritual over it. And through this retelling, I will heal. If not today, soon.

I left my apartment to head to the Divinity School. I felt particularly good about this day. I had gotten up to run, packed a lunch, and eaten some yogurt. I was running a little late as I pedaled up to my first intersection. I saw another cyclist ride by with a helmet on. Suddenly I realized I'd forgotten mine. I'm not an avid helmet wearer, but it came into my consciousness at this moment. Next time, I told myself. As I approached the hill that marks the first half of my ride, I noticed a mini-van sticking out, clearly having failed an attempt to parallel park. I made my way around them, making sure not to swerve in front of any cars. I heard a car come up next to me. It was the same van. They went around me and cut in front of me. I inferred that they were going to attempt to park again. I moved over to the left, so not to hit them. As I passed their taillights, time slowed. She was going to turn left. I had too much momentum behind me as I descended the hill. I grabbed onto my brakes. I leaned back. I called out, "What the hell are you doing?" Too late.

On my back, face to the sky I breathed slowly. For a moment, my world had completely fallen apart. I was suddenly aware of my vulnerability. I pushed my mass of flesh up off the pavement. I realized I had landed in the other lane, five or ten feet away from Nigel. I stood up and moved toward my bike.
"Why didn't you use your blinker? What were you doing?" I asked, covering my intense sense of nakedness with bravado.
"Are you ok?" a small sixteen year old girl asked as she stepped out of the mini-van. A chorus of voices rushed at me repeating the question.
Who were these people wanting to know if my fallible frame still worked?
"I'm fine. I'm fine," I said over and over, picking up Nigel's twisted frame. He looked suddenly small and light against the backdrop of the giant van.
"Hold on. You're probably a little shook up. Let me take this," a man said and took my bike, Nigel. I reached for Nigel, wanting to hold to something to make me feel bigger. The man put his arm around me and led me to the sidewalk. "Just take a second."
I breathed deep. My lungs work. My knees hurt. Otherwise I was fine. Nigel was okay.
"She almost hit us, too. She pulled out right in front of us without looking." The man gestured towards his truck. I realized he had been following the mini-van. "Do you want to take down her license plate?"
"No. I'm okay." This time I said it firmly. I did not want to stand there any more. I did not want to be seen so vulnerable and alone, some twenty-something on her bike without a helmet. I wanted Nigel back. I wanted to be big and safe.
The driver's friends asked again, "Are you ok? Are you sure?"
"Thank you. I'm fine," I answered.
People returned to their cars and their days. I started to walk Nigel down the sidewalk. I felt myself start to shake. I felt my mind start to lose control over the situation. I could have...she could have...what if I'd... I called my uncle. I knew he would hear me. I knew he would listen. I cried. I calmed down. "Were you wearing your helmet?" I cried again.
I made my way back to school, biking part of the way. I cried once I was back in the seat. I got to school. I went to see my work supervisor, our director of religious and spiritual life. I told my story. I cried. She took me to the medical center. I told me story again. I cried. With some ice packs and a warning about soreness and stiffness, I came home on the bus.

My sweet friend Ace greeted me at the door and I thanked the earth for continuing to spin. I thanked my tights for saving my tender legs. I thanked my flesh for holding itself together. I thanked Nigel for being such a sturdy bike. I wept from gratitude and mourned the loss of my innocent beliefs of invincibility. Through my sole ritual, I gathered my strength about me and embraced my vulnerability.

Every muscle aches. All at once, Monday became the day I grew up. I am not so young anymore. My body is aging and my humanity feels entirely real. I have read so much about how ritual helps people order their worlds or regain power when they feel so weak. Only now do I begin to realize what that means. I have been through rituals. I have been through deeper and greater pain than being hit by a car. And I've been hit by a car before. Somehow, though, my awareness of how my mind is processing and my rituals are saving me changes how I see others. This body is tough and hearty, but it will not last forever. I write, I love, and I think all in order to come to peace with my embodied existence, to make these moments somehow less futile. For me, there is so much hope in that fact. There is so much hope in my ability to create relationships and rituals. I have always been one who loves chaos. Today, though, I am one who understands order.