Turning Back

I was late to my appointment. I'm always late for my appointment. Have you ever noticed when you can't stand people around you, that's when the Universe throws more and more people into your path? Them, their pets, their cars, their shopping carts. I find when I can't stand people the most is when I'm to my pompadour in them. So, being late, and feeling ornery, every empty street had one car right in my path as I rode, so it was stop and go the entire way. I got very tunnel-visioned and had retreated into grumbling. Grumbling, grimacing—no wonder no one waved as I rode past.

On a long stretch of multi-use path, off the road, running through a tiny strip of parkland alongside the railrunner tracks, the Universe added wind to the mix, so that the downhill felt like it was uphill with the cold headwind blowing grit into my eyes. I grimaced more and cranked with all my might, standing over the pedals and vowing utmost effort no matter the obstacles.

Two hundred yards ahead, where the path's downhill evened out before Second Street, I saw what looked like a roll of cloth fall into the bike path. Or like a tent being unfolded. I couldn't tell. It was merely an obstacle and it irked me. I pushed harder.

As I got closer I realized it was a man. Sprawled out like a sunbather across the path. I pulled to the right as we came together to pedal past him, glared down at him balefully and bit back the desire to bark out an insulting demand that he get his clueless ass out of my way. I shook my head and pushed harder. Anger's ugly company. Its got hardwired into the behavioral impulse to attack. Whether one does so or leaves, its payload is hostility. So I glared.

Fifty yards on a woman was walking the opposite direction. She flagged me down, so I slowed. “Is that a person there?” she asked me.

“Yeah, it is,” I responded with a tone meant to say, “It's ludicrious, right? Can you believe some people's gall?” before pedaling past her.

But her tone hadn't been incredulity, curiosity or caution. It had expressed concern. As I crossed Second Street, a creeping unease stole over me as it dawned on me that the prone man had likely been too hurt to give much thought to my convenience. And I had ridden past him, like the sort of New Yorker that exists in most midwesterners' imaginations. Shame flared in me.

I actually rode another 30 yards. Shame's a nasty masterpiece. It carries in it the impulse to hide. I was 30 yards along my master plan of riding away to hide my face for having turned my back on someone in need, especially from the woman whose concern I'd brushed off as I rode past.

But I couldn't do that. Anger gets bigger when you feed it with ungentle acts. Shame blossoms when you hide. The only way to reduce them is to act contrary to such instincts and to paddle the currents in the dark whirlpool of of your own unkindness in the opposite direction, until the feedback loop slowly grinds to a halt, then sluggishly begins to ooze at your direction.

I rode back. The woman had just arrived to stand 30 yards away from the man, unsure what she should do next. I got off my bike and approached the man. One eye was open blearily, scanning past me without registering me.

“Sir, are you ok? Can you hear me, sir? Are you hurt? Tell me, can you hear me? Please, sir, are you ok?” I said, voice raised, over the man. He lay, breathing, but unmoving. His eye had drooped shut and he showed no sign of hearing me. An abraised cut was under his right eye.

Had I ridden on, I don't know what the woman would have done. She had no phone and no idea of how to proceed. I called 911. I told the operator all the details I had and she asked if I would go to the street to flag the ambulance when it got there. I said I would, then got off the phone, turned to the woman next to me and relayed the information to her, asking if she would remain with the man while I went to the street to direct the medics here. She nodded. I rode off and flagged down the ambulances as I called to postpone my appointment.

The medics got out of the ambulance 100 yards off and began to walk leisurely towards the victim. They glanced at me out of boredom but said nothing to me. So I filled them in on what happened, though they didn't seem to care much. Another ambulance pulled up on Second Street, and two more medics began walking along the path behind us.

As the two medics I was walking with approached the victim, they called out to him brusquely, “Hey, PAL, get up. We know you're ok. Just get up, right? Look, if you don't get up right now, you're getting something unpleasant up your nose. So get up already.” They handled him roughly. The next two medics were putting on their blue gloves as the joined the first two, riffling through the man's pockets. I saw another ambulance pull up and two more medics began walking down the path as well.

The woman said we'd done all we could and walked back to her job. I remained. I wasn't sure if they'd need information from me, and I wanted to see if the man was going to be ok.

One medic finally took note of me. “Did you see what happened to him?”

“Well, I saw him fall, but I was 200 yards off. I didn't see what happened,” and I recounted everything.

The medic shrugged, “Enh, he's faking. Or at most he's drunk. If someone's really hurt, when we lift their arm and drop it over their head, it hits them in the face. His swerved to land above his head, so he'll be fine.” He shook his head. “You can go now.”

They loaded the patient into the ambulance and I rode off.

Faking. A little annoyance at the idea. And a lot of shame for wasting a minute of riding away and back when I could have called first thing.

Then it dawned on me that there's countless ways to be in distress enough to fake being injured in order to get help—I've been there before. And I realized the greatest shame would have been to give into shame at all. Which after 30 yards, I gave up on. Help is about the offer, not about the assessment of worthiness of the person it might be offered to. And bravery isn't about never running, it's about turning back to retrace the steps laid down in flight, to look squarely at the thing you fled.

Today, the Universe didn't throw people in my path, after all. It threw me in theirs. Because they needed me there.

Vast Forward

Revelations are in short supply. Then revelations are in abundance. The seasons roll through bringing an ebb and flow of different varieties of plenty without any sense of the lay of the land as I approach. Boon, bust—only the unfolding of time reveals which I am facing. There are revelations of who I am, and revelations of how I am. The first is food for thought, the second is food for action. Years of cognitive realizations left me ponderous but without recourse, and of revelations of action, I had none. So there were years where while I was thinking furiously I stood stock still. Finally, last year I made a string of realizations about how to do what I would. It was a spring, summer, and fall of ferocious transformation. Then the winter was a time for dreams and sleep, the hibernating of goals and epiphanies. And the returning spring brought the question: “What will I brave this year; what dangers will be mine to dare?” So that new revelations—behavioral realizations—began to surface.

Three things came to me. The first was that I can't work the way others do. I have things that the doing of them brings joy, but only if I dabble in several at once. I can't commit to one mastery, so I won't. I tried with Lindy Hop and it burned out. I learned that Lindy was the fuel, but not the fire. When one joy dims, the fire finds new fuel. Not out of grief at the old fuel gone, but in the joy of transformation, faced with new tinder, new timber and new warmth. The second was that my greatest fear is to forge a creative path. To write, to dance, to draw, to imagine, to create. I spent a life seeking office jobs because the creative path is dangerous. So, bravery for me, a penultimate bravery, would be to find a way to make the center of my being the center of my path, and find a way to live a creative life foremost and put the safe life away. The third was that creation isn't a matter of something from nothing, it is merely revealing what I already am. My life is already the narrative, my heart is already the beat of a song. The byways of my own history, the detours, the false starts and lurching pace—it's already a book, begging to be written in text the way it's already writ large in every one of my days.

I had a goal this last decade: “I want to spend the rest of my life, writing a book I never finish that no one will ever read.” It was about writing for writing's sake, creation centered on the process, not the outcome. But I realized, with my three epiphanies, that it was also about invisibility. My narrative is my path, and my path meanders, but it deserves to be seen—it's a disservice to live the invisible life. So, I've modified the goal now: “I want to spend the rest of my life living a book that I never finish writing, that everyone can read.”

Three things came to me. But they didn't come alone. I was perhaps four months from those three realizations; I could already feel them, nascent. They'd probably have arrived, in slightly different form perhaps, by the beginning of fall. But their final delivery came early and was in the arms of a woman. She brought them with the opening of spring. She is the opening of spring.

The Season of Yes

The question to ask in this newly-minted green, now that a year has passed since I woke again from a decade's sleep, and forged a path through fear and misery to find my way back these past four seasons, to the clamorous assent of all the byways of life, is this: now that year of old bravery is done, winter's past, hibernation's over and fire's rekindled in this wind-blown spring, what does my bravery look like this year?

Last year I learned panic's only beaten by marching right through it. I can't avoid it by halves and expect to see the end of it by detouring around it. Lethargy's only beaten by activity, activity that pushes the boundary to injury. I can't avoid injury and expect to feel alive. I can't avoid toil and expect to feel joy. Despair's only beaten by finding joy in falling down. And in knowing the gift of getting back up is the whole point of mishap.

So, what mishap will I dare this year? What injury will I risk? What fear will I face?