Winter Solstice

These are the happiest days of my life.  These are the saddest days of my life.  Read that again.  Is this even possible?  Can we be up and down at the same time?  These two sides to all things.  This yin and this yang.  This duality.  Balancing between these two opposing forces.  Trying to live somewhere in the middle.  The more that I work on myself.  The more that I let the things that don’t belong to me go.  The more that I let myself be happy.  The more that I also open myself up to sadness.  There is no other way.  I have come to understand that living is really about feeling.  All of it.  And in order to feel happiness, we also need to be willing to feel sadness.  One cannot exist without the other.  All the same.  All one.  This continuum.  Life’s circles.  Winter solstice.  The shortest day.  The longest night.  Closing this loop.  Mother nature showing us that a time for recovery is necessary after a time for prosperity.  That both darkness and light are a necessary part of life.  She is our true rhythm.  We can try to resist her.  But we must understand that mother does indeed know best.  May we have the courage to accept her dark season’s invitation to feel our own inner darkness.  Feel it to heal it.  As we patiently open to this re-emerging light.  

 

Authentic connection

Exhausting.  Walking around pretending.  One too many fake smiles.  More than enough phony conversations.  How’s it going?  We don’t really want to know.  We’re just trying to be polite by asking the question.  Hypocritical small talk.  Is silence just too uncomfortable?  I guess that’s why I prefer working from home.  I guess that’s also why I prefer being alone rather than socializing.  I just can’t stand the fakeness of it anymore.  Instead of squandering empty words into the air, I much prefer authentic connection.  I need it actually.  It feeds me.  Lifts me up.  Reminds me that life is so much more than all this pointless babble.  Last Friday.  The day after the coldest night of this season.  Feeling underdressed.  Rolling down my snow covered driveway.  A slap to my body’s face.  Blood pumping.  The spin of my legs cranking up my inner furnace.  That’s my favorite thing about getting out in the deep cold.  It shocks me into the present moment.  The crisp air instantly bringing me back to my body.  This thermal emergency.  The frosty air entering my lungs making me more aware of my breath.  Cold air is clear air.  Clear air is clear mind.  Cleansing.  As much as indoor riding has simply become too exhausting for me, riding outside in these harsh conditions gives me the authentic connection that I crave.  My bridge back to myself.  My bridge back to nature.  Me here for life.  Now.  Life here for me.  Now.

 

My very own board game of days

Eyes closed.  Tucked in under these white snow blankets.  These stripped trees.  Sound asleep.  Just like so many of these wild animals.  Hibernating.  These beings of light.  Their deep rooted innate sense of knowing.  Understanding that this dark season is rest season.  Recovering.  Renewing.  Taking the time to pay the bill for what the prosperous months have served.  This circle of life.  For as long as I can remember, I have always pictured calendar dates as a road map of sorts in my mind.  Kind of like the square boxes that player pieces move through when playing a board game.  Each day its own box.  With its own feel and challenges.   All strung together in succession.  The last box of the year adjacent to the first box of the year.  This illusory track that I have been looping around annually.  Its path not quite circular.  But not exactly square either.  Subtle turns on pivotal boxes.  Like on the first day of school in September.  And straightaways during the uneventful times of the year.  Like the main summer months.  July and August.  Easy.  Just cruise through the unbending open lane of boxes and enjoy the ride.  December is in the top left hand corner of my year circuit.  On a slight upward slant.  And the shade of the boxes is noticeably darker.  Leveling off and brightening up around Christmas.  My very own board game of days.  Painted long ago with the honest creativity of my inner child.   Unchanged my whole life.  Forever clearly plotted inside my head.  A pale spotlight highlighting the current day box.  The now.  A few weeks before the shortest day of the year.  The darkest box.  A time when all that I have suppressed during the brighter boxes is coming back up to the surface.  In my face.  Begging for my attention.  Eyes closed.  This rest season.  Recovering.  Renewing.  Purposefully waiting for my player piece to move onto brighter boxes.

 

Racing to our grave

Racing to our grave.  Faster and faster.  Fooling ourselves.  Calling it progress.  The evolution of this society.  Endlessly pursuing these promised rewards.  Going for the win.  They keep dangling these carrots.  But I’ve come to a point where I just can’t keep chasing them anymore.  What’s the point?  Too many empty promises.  Hopefully waking up from this trance before it’s too late.  The cemetery is already full of way too much regret.  This one and only life.  Shouldn’t we be taking our sacred time?  So much advice to help us live longer.  Eat healthy.  Exercise regularly.  More years.  More time.  More moments.  But what’s the point if we insist on rushing through them?  To get more things done?  To check more things off our bucket list?  Longevity and speed.  Can they really feasibly co-exist?  Caught up in all these comparisons.  The seeds that breed our separation.  The cause of these wars.  I’m done fighting.  No winners.  Only losers.  Standing here.  On my own podium.  Everything that I need to be healthy and happy already inside of me.  In unlimited abundance.  Everyone is beautiful.  Everyone has so much to give.  The problem is that we’re not shown how to shine.  Just too damn busy.  Caught up in this endless grind.  Racing to our grave.

Who is this feeding?

Is this feeding my ego?  Or is this feeding my soul?  I have been asking myself these questions a whole lot lately.  Every single thing that we do fosters one or the other.  Or a combination of both.  But one of them is always at the very least slightly being favored.  My ego.  This inner voice in my head comparing and measuring how and where I fit in.  This learned mental construct.  The fake me.  My soul.  This intuitive knowing feeling deep in my heart.  This love.  This compassion.  Eternal.  The true me.  Yesterday I surpassed my total mileage ridden from last year.  The most since my concussion in 2016.  My ego really got a buzz from that.  It lives by the numbers.  But It also isn’t happy for very long.  Fueled by fear, it just keeps wanting more and more.  It’s an asshole like that.  If you have been in the sport long enough you have probably noticed that ego driven cyclists don’t last.  They ride and perform for a few years then disappear.  Their egos get bored after a while and lose interest once they stop improving.  Lifelong cycling is a soul inspired endeavor.  It has to be.  It may even be something that we’re born with.  In our blood.  Coded in our genes.  Above this season’s numbers, I gratefully recognize the moments of deep peace that I have felt during these rides.  That grounding feeling.  Bringing me back home.  What does my riding feed?  Does it feed my ego or my soul?  There is certainly a bit of both, but I truly feel that these ever so subtle soul whispers are what entice me to keep pedaling.  Thank you cycling.  It’s been a great year so far.

 

November's Weight

The heaviest month.  If I had to choose, my least favorite month would have to be November.   March would be a very close second. I have been feeling it much more these last few years for some reason.  November’s weight.  Autumn is such a sensual season.  The musky-sweet smell.  The eye catching colorful foliage.  The crunchy sound of drying leaves.  The cool sensation of the fresh breeze on our skin.  The universal pendulum.  Coming down from summer’s high.  Nature gently slowing down.  Life peacefully hushed to sleep.  Past this fall peak, November starts with the most stubborn discolored leaves still desperately holding onto their mother branches.  And ends with naked trees and wide open forests.  Transparent.  Empty.  Nighttime temperature lows are now mostly below freezing.  It’s only a matter of time before we wake up to a bright white snow blanket covering this vacant land.  The end of daylight savings making me feel even more melancholic.  Emotional.  A certain mourning.  Is it simply the extra downtime as the days continue to get shorter?  Or is it more than that?  From my then 2 year old daughter’s Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis 19 years ago this month to Remembrance Day, November has an undertone of grief for me.  A reminder of the inevitable losses we all eventually face in this life.  A time for healing through feeling.  Sunday morning.  My ride taking me through the valley, out to the historical church in Beaumont.  Overburdened.  I lay flat back on the barren building steps.  Sun beaming on my face.  I slip into a deep meditation.  Feeling the light melt this sorrow.  Lifting me up.  Nature induced vibrational therapy.  My spirit restored.  My inspired heart and legs guiding me back home.  November’s weight.  Maybe it has a purpose?  Maybe simply acknowledging its load makes carrying it more bearable?

 

This Autumn Whiff

Behind my life experiences.  Beyond what I project on the outside. Below this clutter.  Underneath this trauma.  On the other side of this fear.  I’m still there.  As always.  I never left. What I notice most about the autumn season is the smell.  This dank scent that instantly takes me back to simpler times.  Jumping.  Rolling.  Hiding.  In these fallen leaves.  Laughing.  Living.  In the moment.  The fall season always seems to reawaken memories of my childhood.  That young boy growing up near Boston in the early 70s.  Oftentimes, I wonder how different I would be today if my family had never moved back to Canada in 1976.  How would I look?  Would I be riding bikes?  Would I have a family?  Would I be eating the same foods?  Would I be reading the same books?  Would I be writing the same words?  Would I still have the same values?  Would I still be me?  Even if pondering things that could have been is in essence pointless, I still find it fascinating to contemplate such scenarios.  My interest has nothing to do with regret.  It’s more a way of making me realize who I really am by showing me who I am not.  Revisiting the early years of my life brings me closer to the blessed state of pure beingness into which we are all born.  A time before we were broken.  A time before we developed all of these hang-ups in order to survive.  A time before the emergence of our ego.  A time before we started playing these social characters.  A time before assuming these grown-up roles.  A time before all this loss.  I’m not sure how, but for some reason, the aroma of these fall leaves make me feel closer to my true self.  Closer to the pure consciousness that I am.  Closer to the untamed me.  Can you smell it?  This autumn whiff.

 

Thanksgiving

Both knees gently resting on my yoga mat.  Both buttocks firmly seated on my meditation bench.  Simply staring into this abyss.  Noticing the textures and nuances of the darkness behind my eyelids.  These ripples.  Gently unrolling with each and every breath.  I feel like I’m sitting in a pool of water.  Submerged up to my lower lip.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Let it all come up.  Let it all move through me.  Things have been a bit rocky as of late.  My anxiety getting the best of me.  Simply sitting with these feelings.  May I be happy.  May I be healthy.  May I be safe.  May I be at peace.  Ever so slowly I begin to feel it all trickle down into the floor below.  The water level slowly subsiding.  My breathing less labored.  My shoulders that much lighter.  Grounded.  Ready to tackle this weekend.  I long to get out there.  To taste the spaciousness of these quiet roads.  On the cusp of this autumn peak, the tree tops are on fire.  Reds.  Oranges.  Yellows.  Breathtaking.  Much cooler than it was the day before.  The wind has changed.  Blowing from the north east as if it is trying to extinguish this treetop color explosion.  103 kms, a metric century on Friday.  51 kms of gravel on Sunday.  And 31 kms on the mountain bike in Fundy National park on Monday.  So very much to be thankful for on this Canadian Thanksgiving weekend.  Health.  Family.  Friends.  My yoga mat.  My meditation bench.  And of course my bikes.

 

This deep cushiony leather chair

 

“We may not be responsible for the world that created our minds, but we can take responsibility for the mind with which we create our world.”
― Gabor Maté

The deep cushiony leather chair is very comfortable.  It’s just that I’m not very comfortable sitting in it.  Staring out the window beside me, I notice the vibrancy of the forest outside, a world that I no longer feel part of.  I’m stuck in this whole other hazy dimension.  This thick fog that just never lifts.  Unable to run away anymore.  In my own personal purgatory.  Motionless.

My psychologist breaks the silence of my vacant gaze as she reaches out to hand me a pen and some paper.  I have come to see her in a desperate attempt to get some help dealing with the fact that my broken brain no longer allows me to ride and race my bike.  And without that, to be honest, I don’t really know how to continue to exist anymore.  She asks me to list the past traumas in my life so far.  My top 5.  Or more.  Whatever comes up she says.  I don’t really get it.  What does such a list have to do with my concussion?  But I don’t have the energy to reason or argue with her.  All that my bruised and battered cerebrum can do is follow her instructions.  I start writing.  As I gently lay my pen to rest, my distorted focus lands on the dust particles dancing in the bright early winter sun beaming on the wall behind her.  The rest of the universe seems to be business as usual.  The sun still shines like it always has.  Why can’t it brighten my days like it used to?  Even these gyrating specks of dust seem more cheerful than I am in this moment.

How many did you write down?  Her words startle me as if I’m lost in a deep trance.  I got five.  After handing her my list, I look for her reaction as she’s reading it, still trying to figure out how this is supposed to help me accept the reality that I am sinking deeper and deeper into this dark hole as my bikes are gathering dust.  She repeats the second one on my list.  Sexual abuse. Hearing her say it out loud makes me fidget.  This deep cushiony leather chair has suddenly become even more uncomfortable.  How can something that happened close to 35 years ago still have so much power over me?  Literally only a handful of people know that I am a sexual abuse survivor.  My parents.  My wife.  And a couple of psychologists.  This skeleton in my closet.  My deepest secret.  Always there.  This hidden truth.  This lie that I keep telling myself over and over.  

For as long as I can remember, bikes have meant freedom to me.  Freedom to roam.  Freedom to explore.  Freedom to feel that in the end everything is going to be OK.  Heartfelt freedom.  This life-giving freedom that has been taken away from me by this head injury.  Maybe its purpose is to shine light on this secret that I have been holding onto for so very long?  If the saying “the truth will set you free” is indeed true, then maybe working on healing my sexual abuse trauma is a first step in reclaiming this lost freedom?  Authentic freedom isn’t about half truths.  It’s an all or nothing deal.  Maybe my broken brain will only be able to fully heal by putting the parts of my fragmented true self back together?  Maybe the only way forward is to put an end to this lie and finally rid myself of all this guilt and shame embedded inside of me?  Maybe it’s time to start embodying my truth and stop living this half-life?  Every single thing has changed along with this new cloudy brain chemistry that I am now floating in.  I figure all I can do is give in and let it change me.  I follow my psychologist’s lead.  Let’s do this.  As much as I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom, strangely I feel like I’m finally ready to go there.  I’m all in.

For the next two years, every three or four weeks, I sit in this deep cushiony leather chair.  Revisiting the past.  Shedding these timeworn tears.  Kicking.  Screaming.  Recalling.  Feeling.  The chair doesn’t change, but somehow it slowly becomes more and more comfortable.  This work isn’t just in this chair.  I also begin devouring books that inspire my true essence.  I meditate.  I practice yoga.  I start journaling.  And ever so slowly I also get back on my bikes again.  I’m not sure how, but verbalizing the details of my sexual abuse in a safe setting enables me to let go of the emotions attached to it.  Psychotherapy somehow lets the buried and denied parts of me born from this trauma come up to the surface.  The bulk of each appointment isn’t about my concussion even though the symptoms continue to linger.  It’s about revisiting these traumatic events, allowing myself to feel what I wasn’t equipped to feel when it happened and mourning what was lost.  The more I open up, the more healing momentum I create.  Unblocked from my past, breaking free from these shackles, so much positive energy now flowing without any resistance.  The physical healing of my injured brain fueled by all the emotional work that I am doing.  Being healthy isn’t just about getting enough exercise and eating the right foods.  It’s also about our bodies being in balance with our psyche and our emotions.  This equilibrium is the key. 

Fast forward five years later to 2021, my physical brain has mostly healed.  I can ride my bike comfortably again without any post-concussion symptoms.  But I’m not the same person that I was before my accident.  I’m more content.  I’m more at peace.  I’m more true.  And I’ve become very comfortable being alone.  So comfortable, that I crave it.  Alone on my bike.  Alone in nature.  I’ve really come to enjoy my own company.  One of my basic needs.  As September expires into October, I load my bikes and gear into my truck and head north.  This Xperience Kouchibouguac cabin providing the amenities to enable me to host my own private gravel cycling meditation retreat.  The national park trails leading directly into the parking lot of the cabin complex.  Three days.  Two nights.  And three amazing rides as well as a few hikes.  Something about the vibrancy and stillness of the forest that reawakens the life breath inside of me.  This cool moist air.  Purifying.  These forest trees.  Mesmerizing.  No hidden agenda.  Simply living fully in the moment.  Pedaling through this protected forest, I ponder how far I’ve come since first sitting in that deep cushiony leather chair.  How did I get here?  The truth is that I was never the lone occupant of that seat.  The young greasy-haired naïve teenager in me was also there, sitting right next to me.  My inner child.  He needed to be there.  He needed to finally be heard.  He needed to finally be held and hugged so very tight.  He needed to be healed in order for me to become whole.

Every single one of my life experiences live inside of me.  Every single one of my former selves make me who I am.  And they accompany me everywhere I go.  At work.  At home.  And on each and every one of my bike rides.  Befriending, supporting and nurturing every single one of them is how I continue to heal and live a full life.  Comfortably by myself.  Peacefully alone but never lonely.  Reassured and comforted by all of my former selves.  That’s why this work is so important.  My life’s work.  My longing to reach my expiry date empty.  Nothing to hide.  Nothing more to say.  Nothing more to do.  Nothing to let go of.  We are the only ones that can save ourselves.  It took me a while to understand this, but once I did, everything changed.  

Is this suffering optional?

I suffer whenever I believe that there exists a point in time when I will no longer suffer.  The promise of a future nirvana started with the fairytales that I listened to as a young child.  “And they lived happily ever after” is how they all seemed to end.  As I got older, and life became more complicated, it was a matter of “if I can just finish school”.  That became “if I can just graduate from university and have a career”.  But even with that first real job, I still had to pay my dues.  Underpaid.  Overworked.  Push through it.  It will be worth it in the end is what I was being told.  The cure for the lack that you are feeling is to work your way up the corporate ladder.  Life gets better the closer you get to the top.  Such a believable illusion manufactured by our capitalist society.  That dream job.  Does it even exist?  Peace and salvation from our suffering always seems to be right there.  Just around the corner.  The next thing.  After we finish this thing.  This never ending cycle of broken promises.  Middle age.  And still agonizing.  Uncomfortably sitting in this painful void.  What can save me now?  Retirement.  Is that when I will finally be free from this suffering?  Is that why they call it the “golden years”?  So much of our suffering happens in our minds.  When how we think things should be don’t match what they actually are.  Tormented by our expectations.  Will I ever be able to drop my attachment with a certain outcome?  Is it even possible to live in harmony with reality?  It seems like there simply will always be something.  The eventual breakdown of our physical bodies.  Sickness.  Aches and pains.  Trauma and loss.  Maybe our fear of this pain is what makes us suffer most.  Endlessly afflicted by this human condition.  Strangely, whenever I fully accept the fact that there will always be suffering in life, the less that I suffer.

 

Truth and Reconciliation

“The truth was a mirror in the hands of god.  It fell, and broke into pieces.  Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.” – Rumi 

I remember seeing a swastika hand written on a desk in middle school before knowing what it really meant.  I remember learning about the holocaust  a few years later.  At the time, these stories didn’t seem real to me.  It felt more like a fictional horror movie .  Surreal.  As the reality of it all sunk in, I remember thinking how ashamed I would feel if I were German.  Even if I were not alive during the second world war, how could they live and walk on the same soil that these unthinkable atrocities took place on at the hands of their ancestors.  But I wasn’t there.  It wasn’t me.  And things like these would never happen in Canada.  When I first heard about Canadian residential schools from my daughter a few years ago, I didn’t understand what it really meant.  They still existed when I was her age, so maybe that’s why I didn’t learn about them when I was in school?  Or maybe I did but didn’t really understand what it all meant at the time?  As this reality slowly sinks in, my heart breaks into pieces for all the trauma suffered at the hands of my ancestors.  On this National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, I pause to recognize and honor our First Nations, Inuit and Metis brothers and sisters.  Even if there is no way to undo all the unthinkable wrong that has been done, please allow me to also feel even a tiny bit of your pain and know that I stand by you as you mourn all that was lost.  Some things in life can never be fixed.  They can only be carried.  At the very least, please know that you are not alone to carry this burden. 
 

Fall Equinox

Fall equinox.  The tipping point.  When nights begin overtaking days.  My inner darkness also coming out of its shadow masquerading as anxiety.  Covid cases surging in my corner of Canada.  Mandatory mask policies reinstated.  And there’s also this mid-life predicament.  Standing at these crossroads.  Pondering my next move.  During one of his talks, spiritual teacher Jiddu Krishnamurti surprised his audience when he said “Do you want to know my secret?”.  Everyone was all ears.  What he was about to say was the reason why they had come to listen to him speak.  His answer was simply “I don’t mind what happens”.  Can it really be that simple?  The urge to be in control of my own narrative has been very strong lately.  My fear response.  But what if instead of forcing my own destiny, I just let my narrative write itself?  I suffer whenever I’m not in alignment with reality, whenever I don’t let this moment be just as it is, when I label it as bad or even as good.  In my head.  Suffocating.  I desperately need some space.  Another solo day trip to Fundy National Park.  The smell and taste are definitely autumn, but the sun still feels like summer.  Something about this place creates a much needed opening deep inside of me.  Breathing space.  After my usual Whitetail loop, I head down to Herring Cove.  Barefoot on the rocky sand.  Grounded.  I meditate for a bit in the cool salt water.  This existence.  Maybe it’s already exactly how it should be.  Maybe there is nothing to fear except fear itself.  I have no idea how my story is going to eventually end.  But, in this moment, I can feel a certain liberation from my distress simply watching it all unfold.