I love to write; and so I wrote. I love how you are, and whom you may flower into; so I wrote about you.
I was thinking about the things I truly love to do. Not ‘love’ in the casual sense of the word that gets bantered about 20 times a day to describe affection for such things as pizza and pop stars. Rather, ‘love’ in the exceptional way, to describe something that truly transcends the normal, and liberates us from ourselves into a higher level of consciousness.
I LOVE to mountain bike.
But not just anywhere, I love to ride deep within the hard trails of the forest and rock and root and other rough climbs. I’ve always known this well, but I wasn’t sure why it was so until now; till you made me reflect.
I love mountain biking amidst the birch and bramble, the scorching sun and encroaching jungle because it’s an unpredictably demanding journey each time. Who knows what inhabits the shadows around that next sharp bend or over the hill I’m speeding towards? Do I have the skills to navigate the unforeseen as it suddenly unfolds before me? These alarming uncertainties and their implications –fair and foul – are heighted at each jump, cliff’s-edge swerve, and urgent gear change by the pulse-quickening speed of my aluminum horse, the endorphin rush, and the glowing fatigue, which nips at my heels and forces me to dig deep into previously unknown energy and skill, and finally resolve.
You recently said you loved chatting with me, and you do so for a few reasons, I imagine. But at least one of them – whether you know it or not- is that I am your mountain trail.
Our conversations are unpredictably dangerous, and not by accident. You need to change gears on the fly or be left behind. You need to adapt to unpredictable -even taboo- jumps and swerves into topics you are not always prepared for or comfortable with. But if you always were, our intimate sharing of ideas would no longer be as thrilling a ride. It would be just like those others: perhaps still enjoyable, but predictable and safe; ordinary.
Our dawn collusions, sometimes under alibi-granting duress, are the roads that you navigate to find the undiscovered lands of yourself. They tests you, and sometimes you don’t like the challenge of the dark confessional and the blushes which illuminate it brilliantly; and sometimes you don’t –initially at least- like the answers you find buried within yourself; but you have indeed discovered, excavated and liberated more of yourself; jewels beneath the desert sands.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, and throw cool caution to the warm wind of the ride; let it flow over your fine lashes, rose lips and mystery-tangled hair, and recede into your wake.
You said you love to chat with me.
I am the highway.