Flying Solo

 

One realizes the many things one had help with,

Like rubbing cream into the dry spot on one’s back, completely out of reach.

Now one takes a bamboo back scratcher and

Covers it with a sock and 

Slathers the sock with moisturizer and

Manages the job.

Now one realizes it will be fine if some jars can’t be opened and 

Talks to oneself and the cat about many matters and

Works at the skill of cooking for one and

Checks thrice that the doors are locked before retiring and

Stretches out in the bed that has long been a solo operation anyway and

Manages eventually to sleep.

One worries about falling and

Does slow, gentle yoga to get stronger and

Practices balancing on one foot and

Hires help for the snow shoveling and

Discovers the fellow who shovels at the door one cold morning

Hand over heart, asking how one is “holding up.”

Neighbors and friends, too, check in on the “holding up” question

And one realizes that after all it’s a comfort that people care.

One musters the courage to drive everywhere and

Discovers it’s doable after all and

Likes the convenience of driving across town to one’s appointments

Rather than always taking the bus.

One gets the smaller Christmas tree and fewer poinsettias and

Considers procuring smaller ornaments and

Tries not to cry in front of one’s children

Lest they think one is about to crash and burn on this solo flight.

One realizes there is a vast reservoir of strength,

Steely strength

The kind of strength that allows one to push out a baby or two and

Lose a third

And one draws on this strength and remembers to breath and eat and sleep and

Notice the winter sunsets, still glowing and glorious though

One is flying solo.

Blogs and Conversation

The Observation Deck card says: "Ask a Question." Here's one: Why do I write this blog?

One reason is to record my voice. I've wished many times that I had more samples of the voices from my past--those I've loved and lost. Another reason is that I want to capture certain ideas I find valuable and remember them for future reference. Sometimes I look up an old blog I've written to remind myself of things I've figured out before, like Gretel following the trail of breadcrumbs through the dark forest.

A third reason is that I've always enjoyed writing. Why? Words fascinate me, and putting them down in just the right way to truly express an idea gives me satisfaction and joy. Just as others might express themselves with a painting or a song or a scientific experiment or a challenging rock climb, I express myself best with words.

A related question running through my mind quite often is: Why is it so damn hard these days to find good conversation? Sherry Turkle published a NYT article a few weeks ago called "The Flight from Conversation" that bemoans our tendency to focus on short electronic communications rather than the admittedly more messy, stop-and-start of genuine, real-time connection that can actually be had by looking someone in the eyes for an extended period of time, listening carefully and patiently to what is said, and then responding in turn. We do this, God help us, even when a person is sitting right there (I do it too). A recent Atlantic article asks: "Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?". Perhaps so.

In the olden days (my children), there were salons where intellectuals gathered for fascinating discussion. I fantasize about starting a monthly conversational potluck, where everybody brings a dish for dinner and a topic written on a slip of paper. Over dinner we would draw one topic at a time for discussion.

What could possibly go wrong? A political or religious topic might throw the group into heated argument--what joy! Or...nobody would know how to get started because we've all forgotten how to actually converse. People would clam up, or retreat to the bathroom to check their iPhones. But surely intelligent, verbally adept people could get beyond these obstacles. The more I think about it the more I love the idea, but I also fear rejection--what if I try it but nobody wants to come? They'd rather stay at home "liking" on Facebook and tweeting into the ether, or simply enjoying peace and quiet. As Sartre pointed out, "Hell is other people." Can conversational skills actually atrophy? Real conversation still happens for captive audiences on airplanes who are wirelessly deprived, so I see a glimmer of hope. Although I admit I am the first one to bury my nose in the book on the airplane, sending the clear signal that I Don't Want to Talk...perhaps I should revisit that.

Of Mice and B-bikes

I steel all my courage. At the bottom of the path through the CU campus and across the creek is the B-bicycle station which I have carefully cased previously, its red bikes on display. Ive already walked a couple of miles to get this far, and today I intend to check out a bike for a short spin. I follow the instructions to insert my credit card.


On my first try, with only 30 seconds of insistent beeping allotted to pull a bike from the rack, I get confused and press the silver button which is only to be pressed if you have a special B card which I of course don't have. Three beeps tell me the bike has been "successfully returned," still locked tightly into the rack, not my intention at all. But since I have 24 hours of usage for my $5, all I have to do is swipe my credit card again and this time I hastily yank the bike out of the nearest slot. I now have the B-bike in hand and, happily, no onlookers have seen me fumbling.

A small sign on the bike says "B-cycles will self destruct when ridden on commercial sidewalks and pedestrian malls."


I imagine what this self-destruction might involve: whooping alarums? A poof of smoke and perhaps for drama a small lick of flame? A mechanical recording that warns "this bike destructs in 30 seconds" or perhaps simply "I can't do that, Lynn?"

My plan is very simple, anyway. I will ride the bike strictly on the bike path from here to the next station, just past Broadway--about 7 blocks. But this does take courage on my part, because I've always been nervous on bikes: a wobbling, unassertive rider too shy to call out "on your left" when I pass a pedestrian. And I am also doing the unconscionable (given my frequent exhortations to my children); for this short experiment I am Biking Without a Helmet.

I keep my backpack on my back rather than using the basket, hoping it will be more stable. I try to remember the last time I was on a bike. I take a breath and careen off down the path, which is not flat of course since each bike path underpass involves a small dip down and back up again. Despite my ability to walk relatively long distances, I'm out of shape bike wise and actually have to suppress my humiliation and briefly walk the bike back up from the underpass at 17th.

It is an unstable but quick ride, and the sharp pain in my right hip from my walk that had caused some limping a bit prior to arrival at the bike station has magically disappeared, perhaps because the hip got a rest as I sat on the bike using muscles and joints in different ways.

But my relief is palpable at being able to get off the bike again, push it back into an empty slot in the rack behind the Municipal Building, and observe the reassuring triple beep and green light indicating that it has been successfully returned without self destruction of either me or bike.

For my $5 I can do that again and again anytime in the next 24 hours free, as long as my rides are under an hour. And rest assured, if I try it again today, it will be another short ride. I love the concept though, encouraging alternative forms of transportation with these $1000 smart bikes that are tracked by GPS and are suddenly so readily available along our Boulder Creek Bike Path. I hope they end up being successful. Biking as an alternative does seem to make sense for me and my hips, so maybe I'll continue to take baby steps like the one today.

Wish You Were Here

There is a succinct phrase Mark uses to describe death and one of his philosophies about it; I first heard him mention it when my Mom died and he says it comes from an old movie, although I have never found the reference. The phrase is: “You’re not here, you’re here, you’re not here.”

Somehow this links in with an earworm I’ve had for the past few weeks: the classic Pink Floyd tune circa 1975, “Wish You Were Here, ” by David Gilmour (music) and Roger Waters (lyrics). To me this is a song about the despair and grief you feel when someone you deeply love is not really there anymore—even when they might be right next to you.

The song begins with the sound of a woman’s voice on the radio and what sounds like a twist of the knob, scanning the channels, classical music, a search for a better station. Then strumming begins on a 12-string acoustic guitar, quietly scratchy at first as though over the radio. The sound seems to floating across a lake late at night. It gets a little louder and another guitar joins in with the lead. Finally the song starts:

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears,
Wish you were here.

Listen to it sometime. I swear it is a song about two people together but apart: "Wish You Were Here.” At the end, you can hear the lonely sound of wind scouring a desert or moor (or perhaps the dark side of the moon).

You’re not here, you’re here, you’re not here.

One is the Loneliest Number

One is the loneliest number that you’ll every do.
Two can be as bad as one,
it’s the loneliest number since the number one.

Harry Nilsson/Three Dog Night

It is amazing how you can be lonely in a crowd, lonely when surrounded by people that you talk to every day. The missing element is the connection, the intimacy of being able to share your innermost thoughts with somebody else and know that they understand and care. I was reminded of this recently by someone I love very much.

On my journey, I have to do a better job of remembering just to listen, and connect, and not always try to fix things.