so much depends upon

a red wheel



and so began another day,

cold and wet and dreary…

a perfect reflection of my waking mood.

I spent the entire day reaching for some thread to unravel my tied up brain. To somehow loosen its ties to my heart.
I tried in vain to push my mood upwards through the soil in order to allow some sort of positivity to bloom.
All day i fought myself.
I did exactly what I have already written against.
I refused to back up and gain perspective.

“so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain

I refused to recognize my own wheel barrow, glazed with rain water, standing outside the library I had sought refuge within from the storm in my head.
Most days I ride my bike everywhere.
Some days I just ride my bike.
Sometimes I just need to embrace the freedom to get up and go. To move under my own volition. To feel the freedom that comes from pedaling hard through city streets and down back roads.

Today was a day where I did not want to go and ride my bike downtown in the rainy November cold. Today was a day where I needed get out of myself and into the weather.  To pedal down wet empty streets with rain dripping onto my glasses, wind in my face, upright, arms out.  Embracing my foul weather search for clarity.  

When we are still children we learn to crawl then walk then run.  Always moving slowly in circles around and through and under the watchful eyes of parents.  It is when we learn to ride a bicycle for the first time that we discover the word “freedom”.  We begin to understand the fear and exhilaration of speed that first time our furiously pedaling feet start to outrun our ability to keep control .  The first time we maniacally laugh and continue far and fast past our parents grip with them calling loudly. “slow!”   “stop!”   “no farther!”

This is the first full, true taste of freedom.  

Now, we have the ability to go and do and fly and flee!

We can move out of our tiny circles and watchful eyes.  

We can move out into golden open worlds we have yet to explore.  

We can move so much faster than we ever could before.

We can feel the wind on our faces and the burning in our lungs.  

We can also fall fantastically and destroy lips and noses and knees and elbows.  We can come home barely breathing through tears and show horrified parents the places where skin and teeth should be. 

And tomorrow we can go out and do it all over again.

And again the next day.

And again.

We can learn to ghost ride bikes through wide open fields of grass.  We can feel both the thrill and the fear of the chase.  

We can experience those first disgusting and truly amazing emotions that go along with the first dangerous and secret missions undertaken by children out alone in the world, away from the disapproving glare of parental interference.  

Ah yes, the places we weren’t allowed to ride to with the children you weren’t allowed to know.

So much opened up once you learned to ride a bicycle.

This is why one never forgets how.  

Not because it is easy or part of our muscle memory.

Because it is so closely tied to freedom inside our hearts.  The part of your heart that still lives inside your chest.  That same part that beats inside your chest at 6 and 12 and 15 still slams hard against your ribs at 33 while pedaling furiously through wet empty streets dodging puddles and potholes.

So much depends upon my beautiful chrome bicycle glazed with rain water.

So much sanity and heartbreak and need and salvation.  

So much depends upon burning lungs and occupied eyes and straining legs.

So much depends upon freezing cold nose and ears and fingertips.

So much depends upon the ability to  get on the seat called a saddle with all the feelings and dreams it holds, its ties to one’s needs to move always westward, always onward, always forward once more towards wilds and adventure.

So much depends on its connection to memories of first childhood freedoms and independence.

So much depends upon…

So much.



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