Pining always, not always certain what it is I miss, I acquired a free bike from Naropa’s Bike Fleet.
First, Antonio’s gears cracked in motion and the tire flattened over night, then the bike master popped the rear tire on rosy Her-cules—my single-shift, age-old, second choice. Out of the misfit bike rubble, beamed sturdy and shock-absorbent, Mushroom Stew, aka. my new, best friend.
Yesterday was deemed a holy Judgment Day by some, and as the entire world baited breath for a final fulfillment of Christian prophesy, I worked until mid-day.
Recently, certain lifelong friendships have teetered. I’ve witnessed them sign their lives away and devote their entire psyche to the literature of The Bible (perhaps they feel they’ve watched the same in me wanting to provide every kind of health care for women).
I know full well that there are millions of good-hearted Christians all over the world, but my heart is crippled to honor a however-multi-branched religion aligned with stripping Americans of their religious freedom. Believe what you will, I know no prophet who is not pro-choice. Either way, my line of work is the least of sins. I know this in the valves of my heart.
I was young once before helmets. Rode a bike down Ohio riverbed, dead ends, under Pennsylvania evergreens, along rolling hills, got my driver’s license and rarely looked back.
I am certain what it is that I’ve been missing.
Yesterday was deemed a rapturous day, so I worshiped Mushroom Stew toward the flat iron backdrop—praising aquamarine skies, praying to a dedicated wind. I paused along the creek for the singing water to spread my flat, skin back over boulders. A purple butterfly the size of my pinky nail landed on my hip. I cycled my wheels along the creek and was born again.
Who needs heaven in a state ripe with open spaces laws?
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