Who am I??

I recently received a surprise package in the mail - a free sample of Infant Formula.  Apparently Similac thinks I'm a new mother.

A couple days later, the Social Security Administration sent me a statement informing me of my retirement eligibility.  Apparently the government thinks I'm the age of my mother.

Steering my bicycle around the secluded corner by Minnehaha Creek after reviewing my potential pension, I laughed at this postal coincidence.  As my small chuckle subsided and I cruised down the hill toward the parkway, I began to wonder: if I'm not one or the other, and I'm not even somewhere in-between, who am I, really?  Obviously I cannot trust others to answer this question for me: they'll surely err on the mother / pensioner side of things.

I spent the next two hours pedaling, hitting that blissful meditative state in which I feel I could ride forever. In this tunnel-like experience, one identifier shone as clearly as the sole source of light at the end: I am a cyclist.

Maybe I'm not a cyclist in the truest sense of the word, but whoever I am and wherever I'm going, at least I know how I'll travel in the interim: by two wheels.

Lost

At one o'clock yesterday morning, I sat bolt upright in bed, feeling completely satiated of sleep after only three hours, bewildered about my location.  Indeed, it took several moments for me to gather my global whereabouts.  Even when I arrived at the conclusion, "I am in my bedroom in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA," I did not feel reassured to find myself at home. I did not feel at home.

I tossed and turned; I got up and warmed a pita to eat with leftover Baba Ganoush. I read poetry that all seemed flippant and fleeting. I wondered at the question, "If you don't know who you are, how will you know where you're going?" and my instantaneous answer, while still in Palestine, "I am Minnesotan."  Since returning to Minnesota, however, I haven't felt at home, nor the strong desire to make this my home which has driven my life until this point.  I spend my unoccupied time daydreaming about future trips.  I spend my should-be occupied time doing the same.

Chile, Hawaii, British Colombia, Mexico City.  These all call my name.  The house in Minneapolis that I've wanted for so long seems to have fallen silent.

I feel like that little kid I saw lost at the airport the day I arrived home - here. Dumbfounded at the sudden absence of everything and everyone familiar, spinning in circles hoping to catch some hint as to my future direction, my next move and yet unable to move my feet or cry out for help.

Like that little boy, my eyes will soon be bloodshot red if I keep up these no-sleep sleep habits.  To a full night's sleep!

Estar Fragil no es la Misma de estar Debil

I am still learning. I am a slow learner. I am learning

that to be fragile does not mean to be weak.

A flower is fragile, but can survive

and offer hope and joy even in war.

It is a harbinger of peace.

I am learning to be true to myself.

To live authentically.

To live honestly, transparently.

In this I find great joy,

contentment,

deep and honest relationships.

Life awaits.

The only thing standing between the present and the future

is myself.

Make it. Do it. Go there.

Take risks - at the very least,
I'll have a story.

Story drives my life;

The pursuit of story

Dwelling in story

Creating story

Imagining story and living in story.

Slowly unfolding

the secret

layers

of story.

I am still learning.

I

slowly

unfold.

In response to May Swenson's poem "Bison Crossing Near Mt. Rushmore"

I want to live more like the wild bison and less like the cars twining the highway.
I want to go where nature leads me.
Right now it is telling me to stay. Stay here.  I tug at the reins but the city holds me firmly.  "This is where you belong," she whispers cunningly.


Together Minneapolis and I will battle through life.  Together this place and I have become intertwined.  Her rivers roil and beckon and call to me, "This is your destiny, your dream.  Let us stay and form and be formed by each other."


This land of the many glistening waters urges me to bury my feet and stiffen my trunk and to stand firm and tall and proud in her soil.  To be nourished by her soil and sheltered by the grandfather trees towering above me, shedding their wisdom down past my limbs each autumn.


I weep at the steadfastness of my feet and the transience of those who take shelter under my limbs.


I continue to grow.

Six years

The phone rang off the hook. I didn't recognize the number on caller id and I was nannying, so I didn't answer.  Again and again, it rang.  Finally a number I recognized appeared.


"Emily, it's Ruth.  Your friends have been calling here all day trying to get ahold of you.  They have something really important to tell you. I think you should call them back."


Dumbfounded, I sank into a chair.  What I originally insisted must be a cruel joke sank in as reality.  Annika carried her kiisu to me, set Snowflake in my lap and took my hand in hers, placing it atop Snowflake's white head as he began to purr.  "When I'm sad, kiisu helps me feel better," she explained.

Annika and I on another occasion; cuddled up for a sick day

Together, Annika, Oliver, and I garnered enough courage and composure to deal with the situation and arranged play-dates for each of the children.  I walked through the neighborhood making small talk with other parents, explaining my situation and thanking them profusely for their help.


When I got back to the house, my mom and Ruth were waiting for me out front with their bicycles.  Worried about me, they had come to my rescue as they have time and time again.  I thrust my leg over the frame of my own trusty steed, thanked my family for meeting me, then rode in the direction of home, pedaling as hard as I could. I wanted to ride infinitely, to lean into the wind and ride past the city limits, past suburbia, past any memory of the message that a dear friend had passed away.

Healing

I was learning to ride a bicycle.  We lived on a corner lot at the time, with a cobblestone driveway that arched around the back perimeter of the property.  Those of us who learned to ride our bicycles there would circle the house and yard, perfecting our new skill until the breeze against our skin caused such joy that we would open our mouths, smile and laugh aloud without regard.


I turned the corner from the driveway east onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street adjoining the north side of our house, feeling the thud-thud-thud of the sidewalk cracks under my soft wheels in time with my heartbeat.  Suddenly - and I can still picture this uneven crack between the cement squares - my wheels made a grinding sound instead of the rhythmic thudding, and I found myself on the ground, staring up at the clear blue Kansas sky through the still-naked branches of my favorite climbing tree.  Slowly I lifted my head to examine my scraped and bloodied knee and elbow.  I opened my mouth and began to wail, convinced I felt more pain in that moment than I ever would in my life.


My sister Ingrid, seven years my senior, jumped from the front porch where she was reading a book, and ran to kneel beside me.  Ascertaining that I was not critically injured, she offered what seemed to me esteemed medical attention: "Do you want some artificial perspiration?"


"Yes!" I cried.


"Do you know what that is?" her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth rose slightly.


"No!" I sobbed.


"Fake sweat."


Laughter broke through my sobs and soon I forgot the Worst Pain in the Universe.

Beautiful Collision

I went to church today and a woman spoke of a beautiful collision in which G-d shone as a light from each of our hearts.


I feel I was in such a collision last Wednesday night. Cycling along Washington Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, joyous at the clear night air grazing my cheekbones as I cruised into an intersection with a green light, I heard Evie shout from behind me and knew a car was coming.  Red, line, line, line. I hit by the gas tank and flew, bailed right - not into the intersection.  Lights - everything was white light. Pavement crashed against my helmet. My bicycle frame landed on top of me.  Lights, bright white lights, honking, save the bike, get out of the street.  Evie. People running toward me. Are you okay? Are you okay? Yeah, I'm okay!  I had the green, right? We had the green? Yes, you had the green. Yes, we had the right of way. Are you okay? My elbow's scraped. I'm okay.


A beautiful collision. I survived. I probably shouldn't have.  This feels miraculous.


A woman spoke at church today.  She said she saw a beautiful collision in which everything became light, bright white light, which was God, emanating from each of our hearts.