Mother

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story **** 

Sure, Raina thought to herself sardonically. I’m flying through the air inside a giant tree located in a completely different realm.

Feeling completely overwhelmed by her ever-increasing accumulation of questions, and having evidently fulfilled her lifetime quota of surprise, confusion, and fear combined, Raina forced herself to accept what she was experiencing.  She looked around in wonder as they whizzed past floor after floor of similar corridors.  She determined that this “Royal Cypress,” as Bartle had called it, must be at least 100 stories high. It’s like, the King of trees.

About 10 floors into their flight, Raina saw one of the corridor doors open. A beautiful auburn-haired woman stepped out with two small children in tow.  Two floors later, a man in a three-piece moss-colored suit jumped over the banister on his level, and soared diagonally downward. As they climbed higher and higher similarly dressed men began to appear walking hurriedly between doors, and fluttering across the vast diameter. The more men they saw the louder it became. Soon the space began to murmur with whispering tones akin to those Raina had heard from adults in hospital waiting rooms and courthouse hearings. There was an imperative yet clandestine quality to the sound.

Finally, one of the men caught sight of them.  He nodded at Bartle, and aimed a quizzical smirk in Raina’s direction. Not sure how to respond, she looked down at her feet.  Unprepared for the sight of a thousand feet below her, Raina gasped with surprise and jerked in Bartle’s arms. He squeezed her tighter.

“Careful Love,” he advised. “We’re nearly there.”

She felt their pace slowing, and looked to see a ceiling cover of brilliant needled leaves. Her body shifted as Bartle hovered horizontally. Raina tiled her head back down. Just ahead of her she saw a beautiful russet set of arched double doors chiseled with an ornate crown resting atop two folded wings. On either side, sat two incredibly life-like owl statues, each armed with purple shields and silver swords.

“Wow!” she breathed in as they touched ground.

“These,” Bartle gestured ahead, “are Mother’s quarters.”

To be continued...

Upright and Locked Position

When I was little, my brother and I went to visit our grandmother in Chicago. Man, was I excited for this trip! The mere idea of it was thrilling to me. I was going to travel to a big city and have an adventure without my parents. Aware that not many kids received such an opportunity, I knew just how special this was, and I'll be damned if I wasn't ready for it.

That is, until I had to say goodbye to my parents at the airport. I remember a knot forming in my chest as I hugged my mom and dad, but I tried to stay cool. My brother and I walked slowly down that strange metal corridor to board our plane, and the knot sent these obnoxious lumps into my throat. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing as we entered the cabin. It wasn't until after we reached our seats, and I was staring out the window, that I recognized what was happening. My nose began to run, and I understood that I was one seat-belt demonstration away from a meltdown.

Completely confused by this realization, I tried to collect myself. Mentally, I went over the rational evidence to contradict my emotional state. I told myself there wasn't anything to cry about. I knew this was coming. I wanted to go on this trip.  I had even been excited for it.

When the plane began taxiing the runway, all my effort to remain calm flew out the window. My tears began to fall as I thought to myself, What if I can't do this? What if I'm not ready? What if something happens to us?

As the plane took off, I had a distinct change of heart. I didn't want to go on this trip anymore. I wanted the pilot to turn around. I wanted that plane to land. And, more than anything else, I wanted to run into my mom's arms and stay there forever. I didn't want to take this trip on my own. It was a stupid idea, and I didn't want to have this adventure anymore.

I wish I could say this was a one-time only, childish response, but I can't do that without lying. I have a similar emotional response every time a big decisions comes to fruition. Whenever I'm about to embark on a new adventure, I come back to this same feeling. I start by pretending to be brave. Then, a chest-knot turns to a throat-lump, and, with a runny nose, I begin to doubt my preparedness. Part of me toys with the idea of changing my mind at the last minute. I consider the possibility of turning around and running for the more familiar (yes, sometimes that still includes my mom). Then, I suck it up and face the facts.

Maybe it's immature, but I think I had it all figured out early on. Even as a little girl, I knew that my tickets had been purchased, my bags were packed, and once that plane was in the air, I was having this adventure whether I wanted it or not.

Being Seen

Image from Deathly Hallows found here

I used to know a kid who genuinely believed he was invisible. This superhuman impossibility was an easier explanation for his life than the truth.

Originally, his belief translated to some rather charming behaviors. After lining the kids up to come in from recess, we'd hear little footsteps followed by the dribbling of a basketball. One of us would run after him, and he'd stand there aghast.

"How'd you know I was here?!" He'd cry out.

Eventually, we adapted to his stealthy ways. Making sure to keep at least one eye on him at all times, we would call "I see you," whenever he covertly slipped away from the group. He'd typically respond with a confused "how?"

As his circumstances improved, he began to understand he was worth noticing. He would experiment by asserting his presence almost constantly. He'd loudly announce his activities, and boast about his prowess with the most menial of tasks. It was pretty typical to hear one of the assisting adults monotonously utter sentences such as "yeah, great job dumping your leftovers in the trash buddy," and "wow, you are really good at drawing lines."

However, with attention being relatively unfamiliar, this kid would draw so much to himself that he became uncomfortable. As a result, he fluctuated between slyly attempting to operate under the radar and boisterously rubbing his existence in your face. Not surprisingly, neither behavior got the poor guy what he wanted. He'd moan endlessly if you didn't notice him hang up his coat on the first try, and he'd be utterly disconsolate if you did see him hide his favorite book behind the TV. He couldn't win.

Only recently have I begun to understand what was at work here.

We often take attention for granted, but it's pretty important. Being noticed can contribute significantly to self-worth and self-perception. That being said, earning someone's attention can, at times, be rather difficult. There's only a limited supply, and deciding what to do with someone's interest in you can be a lot of pressure. To complicate matters, you can't control how another person sees you. You can control your actions, and use that to shift perception slightly. Although, ultimately the vantage point does not belong to you. Others will see what they want, and ignore the things they choose.

Perpetually Ever After

Image found here

I am a unique blend of hopeless romantic and complete realist. I don't believe in happily ever after, but I do believe in partnership, unity, and the next great adventure. I see life as a series of story arcs in which each resolution marks a new beginning.

Merging stories is not easy, and as such I think relationships are hard work. They require perpetual effort to achieve a satisfying result. However, I also believe committing to work with another person creates a powerful kind of love. Such a union provides the comfort and security that allows people to get through damn near anything.

Shouldshine

Image found here

It's sunny, and the Oregonian in me feels like I'm wasting it by sitting inside. My pale legs are literally glaring at me for choosing my couch over a blanket paired with a patch of itchy grass. My inner voice is screaming at me for not jumping on this opportunity to log some sun-time.

And, all I want to do is tell the me inside me to calm down. My pasty legs can stop being so judgmental, and my inner voice can just shut the hell up. I get it.

Here, in this particular patch of the Pacific Northwest, the sun does not have a consistently reliable presence. Therefore, ignoring a beautifully warm day like today seems somewhat neglectful. History might indicate that this behavior is even disrespectful to this kid.

And still, here I sit, giving my overly-adored couch a little extra appreciation. You know why? Because the Olympics are on, I feel like snuggling, and I have faith that the sun will return.

So, my chalk-colored legs can give it a rest. Even if I'm wrong about the weather, I know you can't store up sun-time and save it for a rainy day. It doesn't work like that. If that gaseous beast were to spontaneously disappear, I'm no worse-off than George Hamilton. I won't have forgotten what life in the light was like, and I regardless of the opportunity, I will not regret the one afternoon I took to do what I wanted.

Ordinary Origins

My favorite type of hero stories are the tales of origin. I like watching an individual rise to greatness. It's fascinating to learn what made that person become who they are.

The best origin stories tell us about someone who is broken. They give us a tortured person set apart from society by their struggles. They show us an individual hurting. Incapable of dealing with their reality, these people throw on a costume, create incredible gadgets, or develop powers to defend against the world. They walk, head held high, into battle with demons while we revere them for their strength and courage.

The irony is rich when we see our heroes in their human lives, stripped of their shields, and unable to cope with the things we face each day. These stories plant a seed of doubt. I begin to wonder: if heroes have such weaknesses, maybe we are stronger than we seem.

The Mantrum

As someone who has always been fascinated by psychology and has spent a large portion of her life watching athletic competitors, I feel it is my sociological duty to share my observations with the world. I will begin by highlighting your awareness of one startling human behavior that occasionally wreaks havoc on the cycling community because I strongly suspect that it occurs in many other realms as well.

While not explicitly identified as an area of clinical concern, many communities are acutely aware of this behavior. It has been referred to as a hissy fit, an outburst, being an asshole, having a temper tantrum, whining, and (my personal favorite) getting your panties in a bunch. These are all fairly descriptive titles, but I believe it is best identified as a mantrum.

As it is a developmentally stunted expression of personal emotions, the mantrum can take many different forms. The overarching personality traits of the person experiencing it (henceforth known as the thrower) ultimately dictate final exhibition of a mantrum. Despite wide variability, all mantrums do have a number of commonalities. The typical mantrum can be characterized by a combination of:

Two or more of the following

• Extreme emotionality
• Irrational arguing
• Hypersensitivity resulting in anger

and
Three or more of the following

• Stomping
• Red face
• Throwing objects (i.e. bike, chair, helmet, etc)
• Screaming/Yelling
• Name Calling
• Excessive use of profanity
• Aggressive or physically violent outbursts

Though anecdotally this behavior appears to occur most frequently in adult, adrenaline gorged, males, it is not particular to men. It is important to note the greater variability in mantrum throwing across genders. Those observing similar behaviors in feminine throwers should first rule out a missy fit before applying a mantrum classification.

Your Turn

Here it is. This is the first Monday [since I set my goal of blogging every Monday], that I don't have anything to say to my readers. I have a few drafts on standby, prepared for such a moment, but none of them seem quite right. They are either unfinished, or just off the mark for right now. Instead, I'm simply going to blog about blogging. That seems alright.

My readership has been steadily increasing since September 2011. There's a great number of you reading this now that I don't even know! In fact, I've received messages from a few people who have stumbled upon my musings via this crazy series of tubes everyone keeps talking about. Though it's hard for me to hear a compliment, I think this is awesome, and I welcome it all.

I'm flattered by all the attention, and I want to do right by you guys. So, I wanted to take this opportunity to ask what you'd like to read about. Is there something I've written that you'd like more of? Do you have any questions for me? Are you curious about my opinions/knowledge? Is there anything you've been hoping to hear me say? Have I left something out?

I know some of you are shy about the comment section (remember it can be anonymous), and it's okay to drop your suggestion in any way you feel comfortable. My inbox is open and ready for your feedback. I also have a facebook page that you can join.

Otherwise. Keep doing what you're doing. Come back often, and share my stories with your friends when you enjoy them.

Too Close For Comfort

Found here

I'm starting to pay attention to my own behaviors and means of interacting with others in order to gain insight into how they might affect each other. I'm starting to see how certain words, a specific tone, and innocent gestures can be perceived by others. This is great! Much like the first step to solving your problem is acknowleging you have one, the first part of any change process is noticing it in your own life.
So, I'm noticing myself in interactions. I'm paying attention to my own beliefs and learning about my values and how they can be expressed in an impactful way. As I do this, I'm also observing others. I'm seeing when they have their own self-awareness, but more frequently I'm seeing when they do not.

With all this awareness, I'm learning that I just want more. I want to be completely self-aware. I don't think who I am and who I seem to be are always the same person, and I want to know both of them. I want to completely explore my internal perceptions and beliefs as well as my external presentation.

However, based on my observations of others, I'm not convinced this is possible. Everyone seems to have a certain degree of self presentation that they are unaware of. Just like with sight, I think we  have a self- blind spot. There will always be things about ourselves that, because of our vantage point, we cannot see. No matter how hard we look, and I guess it's time for me to come to grips with hat.

Lost, But Not Forgotten.

Somewhere, in one of the numerous places I store my belongings, is a picture of my dad. I have several pictures of him; most of happy times. I can feel my face mimic his as I look into his own smiling eyes frozen in time; enjoying that moment forever. This other picture is different. It was not a happy time, and though he may be trying, he does not appear to be smiling.

My father is the only person in this lost photograph. He's propped up on a hospital bed with tubes connected to his body. He's awake and alert, but it's clear he's in pain. This picture was taken after one of only a few times I've known my dad to fall off his bike. He slipped down the banking of the velodrome, and hurt himself so badly that an ambulance was called. That's a big deal for my dad. He doesn't do ambulances. He's a "walk it off" "you'll be fine" type of guy.

Though I was around, I have no memory of this tragic collapse. I couldn't have been older than five at the time. At such a young age, most of the experiences I had have begun to fade to fleeting sentiments. However, I have a very significant recollection of seeing him in his hospital room. I don't know if I had been prepped for the sight of him or how much I even understood of his injuries. Regardless, I couldn't handle it. I burst into tears as soon as I walked into the room.

There was no space in my tiny little head for an injured conceptualization of my daddy. As far as I was concerned, this man was as strong as they come. He could do anything, and typically did...with flare. He didn't fall, and he definitely didn't get hurt.

With no frame of reference for how this circumstance had come to be, I had absolutely no clue what it meant about the future. I know that my parents were perplexed by my reaction. They consoled me appropriately, but, at that point in time, I had no faith in their assurances. Though they never promised this, I trusted that they would both be okay forever, and I had been wrong. I just couldn't get over that.

A year or two later I stumbled upon the polaroid of my punctured father. Not knowing why, I stole it from the drawer of family photos and tucked it into a jewelry box in my room. I kept that picture in my nightstand, and never told anybody it was there. As I grew up and struggled with understanding my continuously challenged conceptions, I looked at this picture regularly. It never gave me any answers and it always recreated that same distraught sentiment I had as child, but somehow the memory seemed important to me. I clung to that photo because of the lesson I knew I would get from it one day.

Even now, though I have left it behind somewhere I am uncertain of, I think of it frequently. Sometimes when I'm upset and unsure why, I imagine myself, alone in my adolescent bedroom, opening that stowed away box and trying to sort out the message from the memory.