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?