Saturday, April 26, 2008

Sunday Serenity #53



Ed introduced me to the music of Tangerine Dreams through YouTube several months ago. I believe he has used them for his Sunday Serenity before. I was watching and listening to them this evening with a double purpose--to enjoy the music and accompanying slide shows of luminous art and photography and thus soak up the serenity that simply exudes from them like steam from a hot cup of tea; and to find one to post for my Sunday Serenity.

I had a hard time choosing. I finally settled for this one because it features thee figures on bicycles riding against sun rise and sun sets in a dreamscape in which there seems to be zero obstacles. This brought back to me the nostalgia of riding a bike, once one of my most favorite things to do.

The last time I road a bike on city streets and sidewalks was in the spring of 1989 about six months or so before I got the official diagnosis of the RP and learned I was already legally blind. My Mom who had been diagnosed in the early 70s had been suspecting I had inherited it for over five years and thus I did too though I was in major denial. The last several times I road my bike on the street I had close calls and that last time, on the way home from the library at dusk in Longview, Washington, I was nearly hit by a car. That finally got my full attention.

Shortly after that I gave my bike to the young girl who was my parent's ward--the same one I mention here often as my sister-friend. Then several years after that she moved out and into her adult life and left the bike behind and my Dad asked if I'd like it back for Ed to use since we were without a car at the time. So it came back to me and Ed did use it some but so did I. Not on the street or sidewalks but in the yard and driveway of the house we were renting at the time and in the parking lot and driveway of the church next door. And always with Ed or one of my nieces or nephews watching out for me. This was in the spring and early summer of 96 and I remember several joyful rides during those months. The last one was the most joyful of all until the moment I crashed into the front porch of the house as I took the corner to tight. I had been gaining confidence and got careless. No, it was more than careless it was downright heedless negligence and reckless abandonment of all common sense. I was riding as fast as I could make the pedals go and I kept pulling ahead and out of sight of those who were keeping their eyes on where the obstacles were, including the cats and the kids and Ed on inline skates who could not leave the parking lot to follow me to the far side of the house as the wrap around driveway was just ruts left by tires in the mud of the last rains before our car had died a couple years before.

To this day I cannot believe that was even me that day. I had been cutting up and acting more rambunctious the nieces and nephews that spent a lot of time with us that year. More teen-like than I'd ever acted in all my own teen years. I was 38. I joked with my 13 year old niece earlier that day, after she had cast a skeptical look my way, about having had a personality transplant.

I wasn't hurt too bad. Just bruised and skinned several places on my right side--arm, ribs, hip, knee and shin. Once we had assured ourselves there were no broken bones or sprains, Ed insisted I get back on and I did and rode it a bit wobbly on the paved driveway and parking lot of the church for a few minutes. Although I put the bike away that day with the full intent that I would ride again, I never did.

One might wonder what this has to do with my quest for serenity. Well, in my musings and meditations about serenity and joy and love over the last several years I took note of all the times in my memory that there had been negative repercussions after I'd experienced moments of exceptional happiness and how the lesson I took from it each time was a sense of being punished for taking pleasure in something frivolous or even just for being happy itself. This tendency goes back to my early childhood. Pre school years. By becoming conscious of it and applying rational arguments to challenge the irrational conclusions I'd attached to these experiences, I hope to dissolve the hold that this thought construct has over me.

1 tell me a story:

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