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When we started strapping our bikes onto the back of our car, we started exploring all the trails + paths in + around our city. We have a map with all of the bike paths on it, and we highlighted each one after we rode it. We wanted to see them all.
At some point we started to say that we'd really just like to return to one trail. We felt like we should be more adventurous, but neither of us were ever disappointed when the other said they'd like to go there. We ride that trail under leafless trees as soon as it is warm enough not to freeze our faces. We ride it after flood waters recede + marvel at how far the river debris has been carried. We ride it laughing through the rain, because we can't be deterred. We ride it as the tall grass soars toward the sky + the milkweed swells to bursting. We stop to listen to the deafening applause of dried corn husks + to spot that bird that isn't usually there.
I love riding my bike. I love feeling the power of my legs, feeling the wind scream through my helmet, seeing the snakes sunning themselves on the warm pavement, hearing the birds + squirrels chatter, dodging walnuts + osage oranges, and crunching through dried leaves. We talk to the dragonflies that accompany us + thank the tiny white flowers that cheer us on as we climb that one big hill.
When we returned from visiting my dad in the hospital, I saw the 23rd Psalm that comforted him in this place. I saw the green pastures + still waters. The snake was the shadow of death we knew loomed close. And...there was a promise of rest.
This place, like many in this country, bears a name that recalls some sort of massacre or conquest. At some point, we decided to rename it what it is for us: the Way of Life or the Mode de Vie. It's alive with life + death + rebirth + healing + love + interconnectedness. We love this place. It restores my soul.
Love,
Jane
At some point we started to say that we'd really just like to return to one trail. We felt like we should be more adventurous, but neither of us were ever disappointed when the other said they'd like to go there. We ride that trail under leafless trees as soon as it is warm enough not to freeze our faces. We ride it after flood waters recede + marvel at how far the river debris has been carried. We ride it laughing through the rain, because we can't be deterred. We ride it as the tall grass soars toward the sky + the milkweed swells to bursting. We stop to listen to the deafening applause of dried corn husks + to spot that bird that isn't usually there.
I love riding my bike. I love feeling the power of my legs, feeling the wind scream through my helmet, seeing the snakes sunning themselves on the warm pavement, hearing the birds + squirrels chatter, dodging walnuts + osage oranges, and crunching through dried leaves. We talk to the dragonflies that accompany us + thank the tiny white flowers that cheer us on as we climb that one big hill.
When we returned from visiting my dad in the hospital, I saw the 23rd Psalm that comforted him in this place. I saw the green pastures + still waters. The snake was the shadow of death we knew loomed close. And...there was a promise of rest.
This place, like many in this country, bears a name that recalls some sort of massacre or conquest. At some point, we decided to rename it what it is for us: the Way of Life or the Mode de Vie. It's alive with life + death + rebirth + healing + love + interconnectedness. We love this place. It restores my soul.
Love,
Jane
