Its hot, so I turn around and decide to do a shorter bike ride by going around the loop next to the Bay, where the wind will cool me down. About two thirds done, I hear the familiar sound of experienced gear clicking behind me, and I know I have a biker on my back.
Competitive cyclists, especially bike racers, have tight social protocols. We don’t wave or get friendly with other cyclists. Just pass. Check out the lycra, recognize one of our own, and a snapped nod of the helmet gets one back. Done.
The guy behind me starts to pass.
“Hey, how’s your day going?”
“Fine”.
Not one of us. One of us doesn’t say anything when passing.
He’s in front now. He’s a big guy and has on a killer design racing jersey for a team in Tennessee. He’s got legs, so he has to be training.
“My day is going great now that I have a wheel!”
I jump on. Who am I kidding? I’m coming back after too long off, I’ve been working hard at it, but no way am I going to stay with him. Unless he just got here from Tennessee and doesn’t know Paradise Loop. I’ve got the tight turns and gear shifts down from hundreds of training rides and it’s my only chance. He looks back regularly to see if he’s dropped me yet, lets up a little, I am still a foot off his wheel, and we're still at a good pace. I guess this won’t be a hammerfest, so a conversation starts as we roll.
“No, I live in Mill Valley, not Tennessee. I raced with them until my accident.”
“Road race or criterium?”
“Neither. My and my buddy were sprinting, I went down, the pavement hit my forehead first and missed the helmet. It was bad for a while. My wife kept asking if I would live. That’s all she asked.”
“How did she cope with one kid and another on the way?”
“She was calm. Didn’t freak out, just kept asking if I would live. I’m getting my conditioning back though, but no more racing.”
“Yeah. I was lucky for the ten years I raced, so I quit while I was in one piece. So, did you have that Ah-ha moment people talk about after you recovered and realized you were still here?”
Whatever he said to me, I honestly don’t remember. I think his actions for the rest of our ride just overwhelmed whatever came out of his mouth.
Along the bike path section, its cluttered with joggers, dogs, kids, baby strollers, old people, other cyclists – he slows down the pace, which I have learned is a sign of higher intelligence. Training with hammerheads that just yelled everyone out of the way was the life I lived.
But this guy – he was strangely different. He actually had what seemed like a deep five second conversation with every human he passed.
“Hey little buddy, move to the right. Yeah, that’s good.
Coming through folks. How’s your day going?
Hang right there sweetie, we’re passing you on the left.”
It’s like the whole world was his kid or his relative. I wasn't prepared. Never had I ridden next to anyone like that who took competition seriously.
We split in Mill Valley. He went home to his still pregnant wife and his still successful software company and still alive and still on the bike.
I rode on without a thought, an emotion, an anything. I was just in awe as the awareness of my blindness to people now hammered itself into me.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Hedge Fund Manager seeks jazz gig
I’ve got another design review committee assembled to evaluate my new mylar business card at the local feed zone. My reviewer is waiting for a friend to show up and drink the other half of his bottle of Merlot, and he’s more than late. Two more bar stools left, its Sunday night, still they are going fast. Another sits between us and gives his business card to my reviewer. He eats, talks about hedge funds, and leaves.
My reviewer hands me the guy’s card. It tops mine. On the front, an investment firm. On the back hand written “jazz combo for hire”. We smile, assured everyone is in this economic downturn together.
One conversation turns into another, and we end up comparing world travel notes. He’s a pilot of his own little jet and likes to fly solo.
Every pilot I know can’t resist their personal epic story of “had fun and lived to tell about it”. His was over Barrow, Alaska, and as usual, involved running out of gas. He escaped with some cool polar bear pics and his life.
I’ve got a story too, but his friend shows up and he’s gone.
It’s too late. My mind is racing thousands of feet up in the air. I don’t see polar bears, I see tiny spots of range cattle scattered around a dirt runway. We are bouncing sideways as we hit in a stunt plane.
Had fun and lived to tell about it.
My friend Sally was the daughter of a rancher in Northeast New Mexico. Middle of nowhere. We had launched a couple hot air balloons, got a view, and collected at the ranch house. Her father’s stepson is 16, and can’t let it go until we take a ride in his father’s stunt plane. Great. Loaned the keys to his stepson. I think this will be interesting, so I show some interest.
"Wow! Let's go for it! Like, now!"
The others take the bait and line up outside next to the dirt runway that doubles for the road to the ranch.
He taxies toward us in the World’s Smallest Plane. I re-evaluate my enthusiasm as he hits the brakes, stops on a dime, pelting us with gravel. My brother, a hang glider pilot and my rival sibling, is in the group. This is my chance to get even. Since even he looks a little edgy, I grab first place in line.
My pilot flings open the door and yells at me to get in over the noise of an engine that sounds like a lawn mower.
I don’t even have to jump. This thing is slightly larger than a remotely controlled hobby plane. Its made of cables and canvas with wheels about the size on a baby buggy. I look around inside and all I see is a value pack of toilet paper behind my seat.
Is this good or bad?
My pilot jumps in, and we’re off, everything shaking and squeaking as we kick up the runway dust.
This plane does not want to fly. The cables go taut like snapping rubber bands, canvas flapping in the wind. We leave the ground just in time to miss a dozen cattle that completely ignore us and are obviously familiar with this drill. The plane turns into a vertical projectile. Cattle and sagebrush turn into sky.
“Yeeeehaw!”
It is my pilot speaking.
Hey, how you doin' back there?”
“Fine!”
The plane heaves again to horizontal. I have one eye on the ground and the other on his arm bracing the window so it won’t collapse into the cockpit. Another vertical. Then a stall in mid-air. The engine cuts out to a sputter. Slipping back a little, then forward, we take a nosedive. Well, ok, this is it.
“Heeeeere we go!" he yells. Picking up speed, we are going down.
“Hand me a roll of toilet paper!”
Oh joy, he’s also about to lose his lunch. Or worse.
I had not unwrapped toilet paper that fast in my entire life. I push it into his hand outstretched in my face with all five digits spread like a baseball mitt. Sliding back the window, he throws the roll out. I watch it unfurl like a corkscrew jet stream. Its very elegant. Not a bad last visual of life.
Then, the plane stalls a little, and miraculously goes into loops, tracking the toilet paper and chopping it into artistic bits.
“Awwwwright!”
Its my pilot again. I guess he is still in control, and now on a roll.
Just when I think we’re having fun, the ground shows up. The cattle get bigger. The waiting fans and the ranch house get bigger.
“We’re gonna buzz ‘em!”
Well, ok.
I sense I am in for the Big Racking Move. Sure enough, what is feet from the dirt turns into a switch in direction that gives me an eternal appreciation for aviation technology. Wings flapping, windows sucking in and out, metal cable whining, we just miss the ranch house, loop, and come back parallel to the landing strip. All motion in reverse, we skid to a side stop, pelting the fans with more dirt and gravel. My pilot is pleased.
“How’d ya like it?”
Having an audience, I give nothing away.
“That was just, uh, awesome!”
My brother is next up and I don’t want to ruin it for him. He watched me eat dirt on hang glider landings several times with no pity, and now its his turn. One fan after another willingly goes up and comes down, now that I have broken in the trail.
That evening at the dinner table big enough to seat the next town, we all eat and calmly compare flight notes. My brother stops talking, stares at me with a mouthful, and lets out one of his signature laughs, head rolled back at the ceiling.
I have not disappointed him.
My reviewer hands me the guy’s card. It tops mine. On the front, an investment firm. On the back hand written “jazz combo for hire”. We smile, assured everyone is in this economic downturn together.
One conversation turns into another, and we end up comparing world travel notes. He’s a pilot of his own little jet and likes to fly solo.
Every pilot I know can’t resist their personal epic story of “had fun and lived to tell about it”. His was over Barrow, Alaska, and as usual, involved running out of gas. He escaped with some cool polar bear pics and his life.
I’ve got a story too, but his friend shows up and he’s gone.
It’s too late. My mind is racing thousands of feet up in the air. I don’t see polar bears, I see tiny spots of range cattle scattered around a dirt runway. We are bouncing sideways as we hit in a stunt plane.
Had fun and lived to tell about it.
My friend Sally was the daughter of a rancher in Northeast New Mexico. Middle of nowhere. We had launched a couple hot air balloons, got a view, and collected at the ranch house. Her father’s stepson is 16, and can’t let it go until we take a ride in his father’s stunt plane. Great. Loaned the keys to his stepson. I think this will be interesting, so I show some interest.
"Wow! Let's go for it! Like, now!"
The others take the bait and line up outside next to the dirt runway that doubles for the road to the ranch.
He taxies toward us in the World’s Smallest Plane. I re-evaluate my enthusiasm as he hits the brakes, stops on a dime, pelting us with gravel. My brother, a hang glider pilot and my rival sibling, is in the group. This is my chance to get even. Since even he looks a little edgy, I grab first place in line.
My pilot flings open the door and yells at me to get in over the noise of an engine that sounds like a lawn mower.
I don’t even have to jump. This thing is slightly larger than a remotely controlled hobby plane. Its made of cables and canvas with wheels about the size on a baby buggy. I look around inside and all I see is a value pack of toilet paper behind my seat.
Is this good or bad?
My pilot jumps in, and we’re off, everything shaking and squeaking as we kick up the runway dust.
This plane does not want to fly. The cables go taut like snapping rubber bands, canvas flapping in the wind. We leave the ground just in time to miss a dozen cattle that completely ignore us and are obviously familiar with this drill. The plane turns into a vertical projectile. Cattle and sagebrush turn into sky.
“Yeeeehaw!”
It is my pilot speaking.
Hey, how you doin' back there?”
“Fine!”
The plane heaves again to horizontal. I have one eye on the ground and the other on his arm bracing the window so it won’t collapse into the cockpit. Another vertical. Then a stall in mid-air. The engine cuts out to a sputter. Slipping back a little, then forward, we take a nosedive. Well, ok, this is it.
“Heeeeere we go!" he yells. Picking up speed, we are going down.
“Hand me a roll of toilet paper!”
Oh joy, he’s also about to lose his lunch. Or worse.
I had not unwrapped toilet paper that fast in my entire life. I push it into his hand outstretched in my face with all five digits spread like a baseball mitt. Sliding back the window, he throws the roll out. I watch it unfurl like a corkscrew jet stream. Its very elegant. Not a bad last visual of life.
Then, the plane stalls a little, and miraculously goes into loops, tracking the toilet paper and chopping it into artistic bits.
“Awwwwright!”
Its my pilot again. I guess he is still in control, and now on a roll.
Just when I think we’re having fun, the ground shows up. The cattle get bigger. The waiting fans and the ranch house get bigger.
“We’re gonna buzz ‘em!”
Well, ok.
I sense I am in for the Big Racking Move. Sure enough, what is feet from the dirt turns into a switch in direction that gives me an eternal appreciation for aviation technology. Wings flapping, windows sucking in and out, metal cable whining, we just miss the ranch house, loop, and come back parallel to the landing strip. All motion in reverse, we skid to a side stop, pelting the fans with more dirt and gravel. My pilot is pleased.
“How’d ya like it?”
Having an audience, I give nothing away.
“That was just, uh, awesome!”
My brother is next up and I don’t want to ruin it for him. He watched me eat dirt on hang glider landings several times with no pity, and now its his turn. One fan after another willingly goes up and comes down, now that I have broken in the trail.
That evening at the dinner table big enough to seat the next town, we all eat and calmly compare flight notes. My brother stops talking, stares at me with a mouthful, and lets out one of his signature laughs, head rolled back at the ceiling.
I have not disappointed him.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
More quiet beans for dinner
My New Mexico blood never left me. Its the only excuse I have in Marin County for being a frequent diner at a Mexican restaurant.
I like the half hour drive north. Since I don’t commute to and from my office, I am obligated to make those gas prices worth something. And it clears my head.
This Mexican Restaurant is my favorite. They made the mistake of treating me like family the day I walked in, so now it feels a little like home.
One of the owners is a car collector. He bullies me regularly with the ultimate compliment he is buying my 2002 ALMS cherry red Audi TT when I sell it or else. So I park right in front, walk in . . .
“no David, not selling”.
I checked this place out several years ago. There was a fountain in the front patio huge enough to be in Heaven.
I then walked over to a stainless steel pro BBQ grill that was loaded with oysters equally huge that reminded me of digging them up in Puget Sound during a daily sail. I was an instant regular customer when the other owner told me they were flown in from Seattle Fish twice a week.
The first few orders, after I emptied the shells, I would turn them over one by one and just look at them. It had been so long, but, no way was I going to walk out with any. That would put me right up there with the people who leave the Christmas lights up until June or load up the front yard with mollusk shards.
The bartender there is infamous. Not famous, infamous. He is the epic drink chef, remote TV operator, food server, order taker, substitute manager, dish busser, free entertainment, and waitress heckler.
He doesn’t cry. He only laughs. I come in crying, leave laughing.
Tonight David asks me what's new. I tell him I finished my website, finally rented my place in Park City, and started a blog.
“Really. What do you put in a blog?”
“Stories”.
“About what?”
“Rhinos”.
“?”
"I also wrote about a restaurant I went to, so maybe I will write about others.”
“Uh Oh.”
I like the half hour drive north. Since I don’t commute to and from my office, I am obligated to make those gas prices worth something. And it clears my head.
This Mexican Restaurant is my favorite. They made the mistake of treating me like family the day I walked in, so now it feels a little like home.
One of the owners is a car collector. He bullies me regularly with the ultimate compliment he is buying my 2002 ALMS cherry red Audi TT when I sell it or else. So I park right in front, walk in . . .
“no David, not selling”.
I checked this place out several years ago. There was a fountain in the front patio huge enough to be in Heaven.
I then walked over to a stainless steel pro BBQ grill that was loaded with oysters equally huge that reminded me of digging them up in Puget Sound during a daily sail. I was an instant regular customer when the other owner told me they were flown in from Seattle Fish twice a week.
The first few orders, after I emptied the shells, I would turn them over one by one and just look at them. It had been so long, but, no way was I going to walk out with any. That would put me right up there with the people who leave the Christmas lights up until June or load up the front yard with mollusk shards.
The bartender there is infamous. Not famous, infamous. He is the epic drink chef, remote TV operator, food server, order taker, substitute manager, dish busser, free entertainment, and waitress heckler.
He doesn’t cry. He only laughs. I come in crying, leave laughing.
Tonight David asks me what's new. I tell him I finished my website, finally rented my place in Park City, and started a blog.
“Really. What do you put in a blog?”
“Stories”.
“About what?”
“Rhinos”.
“?”
"I also wrote about a restaurant I went to, so maybe I will write about others.”
“Uh Oh.”
Friday, July 31, 2009
Is anything afraid of an elephant?
I'm in Pasta Pomodoro for the best rare skirt steak on the planet. More intervals on the bike today, and my craving for iron continues to separate me from my veggie friends.
Emily is my waitperson, I am the last customer, and I am attacking the Tirimisu already out of the to-go box. We agree on the superior piece of meat, the work hours (I owned a restaurant on the Big Island in Hawaii), and somehow the small talk morphed into killer bees, then rhinos.
I think it started with altitude, which ironically is an image I selected for my blog. I tell her the boring moments on the Big Island I cured by shipping my skis over from the Mainland and skiing Mauna Kea at 14,000 feet for one day.
The next day at Hapuna Beach, we all get sick from what was surely a minor case of HAPE (see Wiki) which I tell Emily is possible at high altitude, which segs into my Annapurna III Expedition. I am recalling my day with a rhino in Nepal, after we climbed Annapurna.
As a cool-down, Tom, Michael, and I visited Tiger Tops, a national project dedicated to re-populating the dwindling tiger population after the British decimated it. We have a tour guide, and I describe to Emily the beginning of a casual walking tour to one of the observation towers for visitors to view some "wildlife". I am thinking this will be a totally boring day as a tourist, but maybe, just maybe we will see a tiger and it will be worth our time.
The first fragrance on the trail is a large pile of dung. Too large for a horse I am thinking, and it is swarming with flies. The flies are actually migrating killer bees feeding on elephant dung, which we will later be told just terrorized villages in northern India leaving dead people in the wake. Michael is at the front of our little expedition, and he starts sprinting, arms flying in all directions, with dozens of tiny insects pumping away with their thoraxes at his clothes, neck, and face. Slow motion sets in, the guide is yelling at us to jump into the river and throw our colored daypacks as far away from us as we can.
"Bees like color!" I hear. Now we are all sprinting, and I have torn the clasp out of my long hair and messed it all over my face and neck like a portable mosquito net. It's "every man for himself" and I hit the river first without my daypack.
"Ok, they took off, you can come out of the river now" our guide yells.
We gather for a body count. Tom pulls out his Swiss army knife and, like on the mountain, calmly performs his surgery, cutting off the still pumping venom sacs in our skins. Michael's lip is the size of Alaska, and his face is beginning to swell.
"We can walk this off on the way to the tiger observation tower" our guide states. So I guess he thinks we will live and have some more adventure left in us.
About a half hour later, a snort ahead that sounds like a 7.5 earth tremor sets off the alarm again.
"It's a rhino" our guide flatly states. "Take cover!".
He's got to be kidding. No, he's not. Here he comes, the most freakingly huge alligator skinned alien beast I have seen, even at the zoo. Again, "every man for himself". Guess we left the team spirit on Annapurna, as I face it with the rhino, the men out of sight.
I hang a right toward something that looks like a tree. It's pathetic, but I think it will hold me. I drop the colored pack bait again and climb to the top as it bends over and threatens to toss me off. This rhino has a good nose and lousy eyesight, because all he has to go by is my scent. He stops at the foot of the tiny sapling that is hosting me, snorts my pack with a 5.5 tremor and then the trunk of my treehouse. I'm a history piece for National Geographic I am thinking at this point, when I see Tom, Michael, and the guide over the savannah brush gently swaying like they are sailing gracefully through the terai.
The rhino turns, snorts another tremor, and makes a "fast walk" for it.
Now I know, rhinos are afraid of elephants, because at that moment the guys come into view on top of their limo service - an elephant driven by his trainer. I am subtle in my arm waving, but they see me.
"You can come down now, rhinos are afraid of elephants" the guide yells at me.
No kidding.
Emily's eyes are as big as the serving trays at this point and get bigger when I tell her that was just one day of our year long adventure tour.
"I could start in on the Iranian revolution we got trapped in, but if I do Emily you will never get out of here tonight".
"Dang Ann, you should start a blog!"
"Really? That's hilarious. I just started one today".
"Really? Where can I find it? Will you post some of your stories?"
"Yeah, ok. I'll start with killer bees and the rhinos".
Emily is my waitperson, I am the last customer, and I am attacking the Tirimisu already out of the to-go box. We agree on the superior piece of meat, the work hours (I owned a restaurant on the Big Island in Hawaii), and somehow the small talk morphed into killer bees, then rhinos.
I think it started with altitude, which ironically is an image I selected for my blog. I tell her the boring moments on the Big Island I cured by shipping my skis over from the Mainland and skiing Mauna Kea at 14,000 feet for one day.
The next day at Hapuna Beach, we all get sick from what was surely a minor case of HAPE (see Wiki) which I tell Emily is possible at high altitude, which segs into my Annapurna III Expedition. I am recalling my day with a rhino in Nepal, after we climbed Annapurna.
As a cool-down, Tom, Michael, and I visited Tiger Tops, a national project dedicated to re-populating the dwindling tiger population after the British decimated it. We have a tour guide, and I describe to Emily the beginning of a casual walking tour to one of the observation towers for visitors to view some "wildlife". I am thinking this will be a totally boring day as a tourist, but maybe, just maybe we will see a tiger and it will be worth our time.
The first fragrance on the trail is a large pile of dung. Too large for a horse I am thinking, and it is swarming with flies. The flies are actually migrating killer bees feeding on elephant dung, which we will later be told just terrorized villages in northern India leaving dead people in the wake. Michael is at the front of our little expedition, and he starts sprinting, arms flying in all directions, with dozens of tiny insects pumping away with their thoraxes at his clothes, neck, and face. Slow motion sets in, the guide is yelling at us to jump into the river and throw our colored daypacks as far away from us as we can.
"Bees like color!" I hear. Now we are all sprinting, and I have torn the clasp out of my long hair and messed it all over my face and neck like a portable mosquito net. It's "every man for himself" and I hit the river first without my daypack.
"Ok, they took off, you can come out of the river now" our guide yells.
We gather for a body count. Tom pulls out his Swiss army knife and, like on the mountain, calmly performs his surgery, cutting off the still pumping venom sacs in our skins. Michael's lip is the size of Alaska, and his face is beginning to swell.
"We can walk this off on the way to the tiger observation tower" our guide states. So I guess he thinks we will live and have some more adventure left in us.
About a half hour later, a snort ahead that sounds like a 7.5 earth tremor sets off the alarm again.
"It's a rhino" our guide flatly states. "Take cover!".
He's got to be kidding. No, he's not. Here he comes, the most freakingly huge alligator skinned alien beast I have seen, even at the zoo. Again, "every man for himself". Guess we left the team spirit on Annapurna, as I face it with the rhino, the men out of sight.
I hang a right toward something that looks like a tree. It's pathetic, but I think it will hold me. I drop the colored pack bait again and climb to the top as it bends over and threatens to toss me off. This rhino has a good nose and lousy eyesight, because all he has to go by is my scent. He stops at the foot of the tiny sapling that is hosting me, snorts my pack with a 5.5 tremor and then the trunk of my treehouse. I'm a history piece for National Geographic I am thinking at this point, when I see Tom, Michael, and the guide over the savannah brush gently swaying like they are sailing gracefully through the terai.
The rhino turns, snorts another tremor, and makes a "fast walk" for it.
Now I know, rhinos are afraid of elephants, because at that moment the guys come into view on top of their limo service - an elephant driven by his trainer. I am subtle in my arm waving, but they see me.
"You can come down now, rhinos are afraid of elephants" the guide yells at me.
No kidding.
Emily's eyes are as big as the serving trays at this point and get bigger when I tell her that was just one day of our year long adventure tour.
"I could start in on the Iranian revolution we got trapped in, but if I do Emily you will never get out of here tonight".
"Dang Ann, you should start a blog!"
"Really? That's hilarious. I just started one today".
"Really? Where can I find it? Will you post some of your stories?"
"Yeah, ok. I'll start with killer bees and the rhinos".
Fit For Life
What does it mean to be fit for life?
I selected an image of a very high mountain for my blog. I climbed Annapurna III (Nepal) in a challenging environment. Its a good visual to describe how I make friends with surprise, and we had plenty of them on the expedition! Don't know about you, but surprises come at me every day, and I do everything I can to adjust to the arrival with challenging practice runs. How do I do it? Ski off into the trees along the ski patrol boundary rope. Descend on the bike into the turns at 35 mph with fresh spring potholes to jump. Buy real estate . . .
Life is now full of really interesting surprises, and the Hubbel telescope brings back the evidence of more time acceleration constantly. Anyone who isn't aware of this has found their "happy place". If you haven't found yours yet, I'm betting you have a lot of company. Adjustment to surprise is my goal every minute.
I wasn't built or born into into it like my brother. He's a boundary skier too. Hang gliders, anything that gets him off something with air. I credit him with an "aha" moment though. On one of his walls he placed a wood carved set of letters "adjust". He could have leveled it on the nail, but insisted hanging it at an an angle. The architect in me would level it. Next day, angled again. That's when I realized the only way for me to adjust is to choose "the edge". Some edges get me in the zone, some don't. Edges are useful. They clue me in to where my reaction to surprise needs a little refinement.
I was recently invited by a prominent website to post a story about myself. Uh-oh. If I did post,"what would the neighbors think"? But then, what would they think if someone told them I had said no to climbing a fabulously beautiful and dangerous mountain in a foreign country full of amazing humans and experiences?
All Bets Were Off with myself. I wrote it.
It's good timing for me to write anything related to a healthy lifestyle. We have a healthcare emergency in this country. Too many need medical attention for problems that could have been easily avoided by compensating for a life in a luxurious country with a little movement and excitement. For those who choose to maintain their health with a lifestyle change, its never too late. Ever!
My healthy lifestyle has four catagories - what I eat, breathe, think, challenge my body to do, and how much I do of each. Of these, three can become addictions, so I practice “self-management”.
They didn’t name it “comfort food” accidentally. Food can easily replace intimacy with others and ourselves. It can derail what psychologists call individuation. Food can become the “bubble wrap” that mimics the protection we received as infants and children. Breathing is not on my addiction list. I can’t overdo breathing. Cyclists and swimmers have the largest hearts. That's plenty of breathing to cycle that blood at rapid speed and clean it up!
Living in my head is too easy for me. As a dyslexic, I use the right and left sides of my brain at the same time, using more of my brain than people who use either the left or the right. I have a 3D program running all the time. Its my personal video game. But, there's a problem with all this fun. It blocks the transition from Thinking to Doing.
What I have discovered is athletics overrides the left side of my brain and I get in pure intuitive mode. I take it as it comes, and that's it. My brain starts firing all synapses without any analysis at all. For me, a miracle. I love Jill Bolte Taylor's story about her brain "stroke of insight". Her description of it is exactly what I experience.
When I was asked by a website to contribute to a Healthy Lifestyle section for people who want to do athletic activities when they don't have the motivation, I agreed. There are however, limits to what you do.
Feeling superhuman can lead to our demise. We all know people who get a personal trainer. It’s all good until the trainer isn’t there. They gradually lose their resolve. The self-loathing kicks in and the cycle returns to nowhere.
What didn’t happen? "Individuation" creates self-management.
Another close friend, Robert Fulghum, a master at one-liners, reacted to one of my left brain episodes several months ago "Just know the difference between giving up and letting go." Not what I wanted to hear at all. Dang. More "work" to do, not realizing letting go didn't require any work. I really thought I was more evolved.
My focus with my readers is challenging the body within reason, feeding it with good stuff, and reminding the mind how to know the difference between giving up and letting go. These have been major challenges in my own life and continue to be.
What's the payoff here? Why even try? Why suffer? Why . . .
I can't tell you what it will do for you, but if you want a challenge, you can choose guidelines for self-management in your life. You can learn to depend on yourself and trust your intuition rather than on others to do it for you.
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