And it feels so good to lean into that. And I smile a lot more and sweat a lot more and realize that when you have a beautiful person, some rockin’ vintage clothes and a weed-infested-cracked-concrete back alley in the middle of the unrelenting sun, what could possibly go wrong?!
Memorial Day came and went and, although it would have been more appropriate and highly more important for me to be memorializing the lives of those who died for the cause of freedom, I wasn’t.
I was memorializing a love affair with a body of water.
I’ve been caught completely off guard with my connection to this place. Seeing hundreds of people flock here this sunny summer-esque weekend in bikinis and hats and sunglasses, riding watercraft of all sorts while their dogs splash after sticks and balls and their children frolic around in life-jacketed mayhem. It’s unjust. Unfair. Borderline inhumane that I should have to share my lake with them.
Who do you think you are taking advantage of her in this sunshine and showing up only when she looks her best, sparkling under that azure sky and mirroring those perfectly puffy clouds? Who do you think you are dipping into her in her first days of freedom from the frost? Disgusting. Despicable.
You may think you know her at her best, but you don’t know her like I do. You don’t love her like I do. You don’t watch her breathe in and out in the early dawn. You don’t sit on her empty shores at the last light of day just to be near her and gently skip rocks over her surface. You’ve never stood on her docks and supported her while she braced herself against the violence of another storm. You haven’t seen her challenged and resist. You didn’t weep with her as she succumbed to the iciness of Winter and folded into herself for months. You don’t sit with her in her silence. You don’t scream and rant and shake your fist at her in emotional outbursts that she, only she, has the decency to listen to calmly and without judgement. You’ve never smiled with her as she lifts her face to the sun and melts into it’s warmth. You’ve never watched her gently open her eyes to the sky and reflect on her place in this world. You’ve never been there for her.
But, I have. And she has healed me in so many ways. And I know her. And she knows me.
And we are one in a way I never imagined could be.
My comeback begins today. It may be the slowest comeback in cycling history and, considering I’m coming ‘back’ to nothing more than a mediocre recreation cyclist, it’s all the more unimpressive. But it’s my comeback and it’s starting today...and that’s something.
I’ve ridden my bike a total of 8 times in the past 2 years and I have plenty of bulgy, bumpy, flabby, jiggly places on my body to prove it. Cellulite on your shins? Really? Who knew you could get that?! I’ve been pretty athletic and fit for most of my life, going through the normal in and out of shape seasons that all athletes do, but never been down such a pathetically weak path before. And I can’t blame it on a lack of gear, or money to buy gear, or an inability to pay for training or, or, or...
And this is, quite possibly, where people chime in and say be kind to yourself. Love your body the way it is, no matter what. No way. I’m going to work hard to get my body the way I want it, not just sit there and ‘love’ myself.
But that rant may very well be saved for another day.
Excuses never get anyone to the places they want to be (and I have a whole blog about that, too, but it is still working it’s way out of my brain). I have a few, that’s for sure, and they’ve been frustratingly nagging at me, and paining me for 2 years. But, no matter, I still haven’t been on my bike, and that’s what we’re talking about here.
I was more fit during my pregnancy than I probably ever have been. For the entire 38 weeks I swam laps 3 times a week, did group exercise twice a week, and hiked or ran at least once a week (if not more). But something happened when that little babe was born. And I’m not sure I can even put a title on it and it’s so multilayered I wouldn’t do it justice to even try to. But let me just say this: postpartum is no joke. There's no telling who it will affect or to what degree and there is no 'get out of jail free' card. I have never in my life been more moody, more unmotivated, more depressed; lacking every sort of mental clarity, drive, stability that I had before birthing that little bundle. And it has played itself out in every aspect of my life, every relationship, every experience, every morning I wake up only to repeat what was done the day before.
I don’t know where it ends and I don’t know where something new begins. I don’t know when the downgrade flattens out and starts to climb again. I don’t know how much darker it has to get before I see tiny rays of light.
But what I can say is that I’m going to ride my bike. And hopefully I can make some sense of all that in the saddle (no matter how repulsive the view is from the cyclist behind me).
If you're driving on Keystone Ave. in Reno and you're stopped at the corner of 2nd and Keystone, you might see this in the window of a little gem of a store called The Nest. Yes, this is me, but no, it's not just me. This is every woman who has ever breathed. Every girl who has jumped rope, cuddled a teddy bear, gotten a C on a spelling test, started her period too early; every woman who has held her newborn child, hugged her friends, cried her eyes out in the shower over a heartbreak, listened to countless accolades and criticisms and titles about her roles and her womanhood and tried on every hat anyone has ever handed her.
This is me and her and us. And she’s so strong and resilient and giving and gorgeous. And she bears the weight of her world, your world, the world on shoulders too narrow for the load. And she may slump a bit and stammer and fall to her knees. But it’s almost a given that she will stand again, maybe not alone, but she will stand again. She will rise and straighten and plod forward in and out of weeks and through decades. And her feet will ache and her face will leather and wrinkle.
But her smile. Oh, her smile.
It’s bittersweet, really. Sheer joy tinged with the sadness of loss. The acceptance of a remarkable something turning around and inching over the horizon. It leaves an ache.
This Winter has been one for the books in our neck of the woods. ‘Record breaking’, ‘record setting’, ‘never before documented in history’ type of Winter. And for some it’s just that; one for the books. But for me it’s hit so much deeper than that. It’s a redemption of sorts. Mountains strangled by drought revived by this pure white savior. Revived. Redeemed. Refreshed. Enlivened. Made new. It’s incredible, really.
And as I look out across the lake and watch the ice recede, and as I still sit on the dock pulling my jacket around me to brace myself from the chill of the wind, I lift my face to the appearing sun and close my eyes. This isn’t a battle at all, per se, this departure of Winter and arrival of Spring. It’s not a ‘releasing it’s grip’ type of transition as if there were something of ill-will or violence. It’s not one overpowering the other in an all out brawl. No. Not at all. It is the passing of the torch.
It’s an elderly and respected guest speaker. A past leader coming back for one last hurrah. And we instinctively stand as he takes the stage. Excitement pouring out in applause. Yearning to take hold of everything he has to offer.
And we do the same as he exits, knowing deeply that what we just saw and heard and tasted and felt was a unique experience, possibly once-in-a-lifetime. And he hands the mic over with a smile and a slight dip of his chin, looks out to us and waves, and slowly disappears behind the curtain. And we all inhale, long and slow and rub our palms together and hold them up to our lips. We look from side to side at each other.
This is it. And I can’t be more aching for what is leaving and more joyous for what’s to come. And I melt into the sun as if I’ve just braved a thousand winters. And I nod a gesture of respect to the passing storm. And it’s incredible to be a part of.
And maybe, just maybe, with that tone, I can truly say it’s been one for the books.
There was a moment of magic this weekend. Possibly not tangible to others, but to the three of us, well, let’s just say we can’t stop talking about it. Dark chocolate, whisky, vintage clothes and locally made wares all wrapped up in the filtered light and history of a century old barn. Geez. We all probably could have moved in.
When local businesses collaborate, something more than just business happens. There is strength in that bond and the mingling of hand-worked products and die hard passion infuses everyone with creativity and drive.
Honored to be a part of this union. Here’s to more rendezvous (and more chocolate and whisky) in the near future!
And if it isn’t obvious enough, shop at Bespoke in Truckee and The Nest in Reno. Your closet and home will thank you.
Fashion has never been my thing. I care that my clothes are comfortable and low maintenance and are versatile enough to be worn in a diverse array of social situations. In addition, having a young toddler, I have done away with adornments such as earrings and necklaces for the time being.
It may not be shocking to most of you, but Donner Lake is frozen over. Approximately 4 inches of ice covers the east end and makes it completely walkable, even skate-able...
When a last minute reschedule of a photo shoot leaves you with time sans kids and hubby...
Finally finished an edit of a family portrait shoot I did at the beginning of December. In years past, I would have said traditional family portraits are totally not my thing. And, to be honest, I would still say they are totally not my thing...
The fact that I can go outside for less than 5 minutes and come back in a happier person is proof that even the most minute experience of nature revives the soul.
In honor of the Women’s March on Washington, yesterday, I didn’t march. I stood in solidarity with women all over the world who live in snowy climates. We raised our shovels instead of our signs and proved our strength by digging ourselves and our families out of our houses.
