Celebrating the Christ Child's bDay!
I'm so grateful for His blessings...
so here's 2009's final post as a gift:
_________________________
Pre-dawn dreams stirred
Thoughts unrelenting
Day begins anew
My conscious enlightened
His will for this moment in rhyme
Like a door shut
I've not crossed that line
In prayer I will seek
Truth eventually I'll find
But only in
His Perfect Time
On this life threshold
For my heart to give voice
I see Christ revealed
My only choice
And His anointing is gifted
When His Throne is lifted
May His Glory be All we rejoice!
Our Fathers' Son and His likeness
I strive to be near
Head uplifted - Look beyond any fear
Until then we go humbly forward
In-service, helping those we hold dear
23 december 2009
08 juli 2009
Examined Beauty - Art and Hospitality in Hidden Valley
On average twice a year, amidst the pine tree forests, rock strewn creeks and deep blue lakes of Middletown California we find sanctuary. A dormant volcano towering in a cobalt blue sky lends the backdrop to a natural canvas of expansive meadows punctuated with deer grazing lazily on golden and green grasses.
Relaxing on the front deck at Inez's home, away from the tumult and bustle of our urban existence I can reflect upon this design. Underlying the serenity of this composition potential energy gathers, patiently forming during a brief interlude. I'm at last able to recognize the beauty in God's gift, this present, while remaining mindful of the recurrent chaos symbolized by St. Helena's jagged ends outlined on the horizon.
Moving inside Inez's muraled art studio an awareness of her life-story unfolds. An ensemble of hints, clues and relics provide insight and lend reason. I begin deciphering the depth of her expression and the soulfulness of the pieces surrounding me. Amidst this clutter, as an intruder upon her safe haven I suddenly hear the truth - The Media is the Message. It's abundantly clear now; Inez the artist, mother and friend finds beauty in brokenness.
The skillful integration of discarded objects in her work may be driven by a lifetime of reclaimation and re-invention. Born into and inculturated to a lifestyle of privilege and opportunity Inez's recalls a youth filled with books, music and tennis and swim lessons in a colonial Dutch influenced Indonesia. Her idyllic plantation lifestyle was lost to the invasion, occupation and eventual institutionalization as a POW by the Japanese during WWII. Immigration to the US via The Hague, Netherlands encompassed a journey by sea, air and land across the globe that paved an appreciation for travel, art and adventure she nourishes daily.
You see, year after year an abandoned and battered chair may accumulate rust and cobwebs, unnoticed by antique hunters shopping for bargains. Yet to Inez, this piece has a potentiality that resonates at a frequency only she detects. "Teddy Bear Reading a Book" painted onto this long empty seat may entice a hyper-kinetic child to notice its vacancy, to possibly slow down. And by getting this little one to sit down long enough for even just one book, she's helped conjure up his next great adventure, if only in their still growing imagination.
Atop one as yet unfinished chair languishes a drab colored gourd. Oblong and misshapen, what initially is uninteresting and fallow blooms again under her direction. Streaking across it's surface is a disfiguring crack, like a facial scar it makes others turn away in disgust. Yet Inez allows this imperfection. She sees it lending structure to an opening and she bust it open even further. The hollowed interior, filled with nutrition consumed once long ago, may now give purchase to a diorama. Her graphic storyline beginning on the outer surface, concludes inside the gourd. Inez enables us to feed our conscious hunger for proportionality and symmetria into perpetuity.
Inez has a wisdom that allows the sum of the parts to become greater than the whole. Evidence comes from broken shards of tile, glinting with pain on impact. Pressed into service upon backerboard topped with glue the patternless fragments are given new measure and rhythm. Rendering ceramic, clay, glass and stone pixels from her palet the surface is transformed. Now seated at this backyard coffee table she transports you from suburbia to a seaside cafe near Montpellier France.
Inez moved to Hidden Valley Lake to reclaim independence from a life season as Wife, Manager, Mom. I now see how the conversion of a rustic mountain cabin integrates each unique chapter. Using the broad strokes of her life to create her Estate I now see how this home is simply an extension of her art.
Inez has a ceremonial Batik Wedding Sarong hanging from a traditional Indonesian teak hanger. It speaks to her ability to reclaim love late in life. She's availed herself to a man who grieved from loss. She's sought laughter and beauty to replace solitude and stillness. Adjacent walls and shelves display Delft Blauwe plates and tiles, expounding Dutch colloquialisms, verses of insight passed from generation on down.
And contrasting all of Inez's possessions are photographs. People framed to define a precise moment and emotion. These photos are of all of us broken people. Some, speaking personally, like myself - are more broken than others but each of us made whole again when gathered around her. Individuals who when re-assembled as a family certainly become greater than the sum of our parts. Individuals whom, when fed the delicious left-overs Inez has remade into comfort food become whole again. Made whole again by an woman who's love, beauty, laughter, passion and home define true artistry.
On average twice a year, amidst the pine tree forests, rock strewn creeks and deep blue lakes of Middletown California we find sanctuary. A dormant volcano towering in a cobalt blue sky lends the backdrop to a natural canvas of expansive meadows punctuated with deer grazing lazily on golden and green grasses.
Relaxing on the front deck at Inez's home, away from the tumult and bustle of our urban existence I can reflect upon this design. Underlying the serenity of this composition potential energy gathers, patiently forming during a brief interlude. I'm at last able to recognize the beauty in God's gift, this present, while remaining mindful of the recurrent chaos symbolized by St. Helena's jagged ends outlined on the horizon.
Moving inside Inez's muraled art studio an awareness of her life-story unfolds. An ensemble of hints, clues and relics provide insight and lend reason. I begin deciphering the depth of her expression and the soulfulness of the pieces surrounding me. Amidst this clutter, as an intruder upon her safe haven I suddenly hear the truth - The Media is the Message. It's abundantly clear now; Inez the artist, mother and friend finds beauty in brokenness.
The skillful integration of discarded objects in her work may be driven by a lifetime of reclaimation and re-invention. Born into and inculturated to a lifestyle of privilege and opportunity Inez's recalls a youth filled with books, music and tennis and swim lessons in a colonial Dutch influenced Indonesia. Her idyllic plantation lifestyle was lost to the invasion, occupation and eventual institutionalization as a POW by the Japanese during WWII. Immigration to the US via The Hague, Netherlands encompassed a journey by sea, air and land across the globe that paved an appreciation for travel, art and adventure she nourishes daily.
You see, year after year an abandoned and battered chair may accumulate rust and cobwebs, unnoticed by antique hunters shopping for bargains. Yet to Inez, this piece has a potentiality that resonates at a frequency only she detects. "Teddy Bear Reading a Book" painted onto this long empty seat may entice a hyper-kinetic child to notice its vacancy, to possibly slow down. And by getting this little one to sit down long enough for even just one book, she's helped conjure up his next great adventure, if only in their still growing imagination.
Atop one as yet unfinished chair languishes a drab colored gourd. Oblong and misshapen, what initially is uninteresting and fallow blooms again under her direction. Streaking across it's surface is a disfiguring crack, like a facial scar it makes others turn away in disgust. Yet Inez allows this imperfection. She sees it lending structure to an opening and she bust it open even further. The hollowed interior, filled with nutrition consumed once long ago, may now give purchase to a diorama. Her graphic storyline beginning on the outer surface, concludes inside the gourd. Inez enables us to feed our conscious hunger for proportionality and symmetria into perpetuity.
Inez has a wisdom that allows the sum of the parts to become greater than the whole. Evidence comes from broken shards of tile, glinting with pain on impact. Pressed into service upon backerboard topped with glue the patternless fragments are given new measure and rhythm. Rendering ceramic, clay, glass and stone pixels from her palet the surface is transformed. Now seated at this backyard coffee table she transports you from suburbia to a seaside cafe near Montpellier France.
Inez moved to Hidden Valley Lake to reclaim independence from a life season as Wife, Manager, Mom. I now see how the conversion of a rustic mountain cabin integrates each unique chapter. Using the broad strokes of her life to create her Estate I now see how this home is simply an extension of her art.
Inez has a ceremonial Batik Wedding Sarong hanging from a traditional Indonesian teak hanger. It speaks to her ability to reclaim love late in life. She's availed herself to a man who grieved from loss. She's sought laughter and beauty to replace solitude and stillness. Adjacent walls and shelves display Delft Blauwe plates and tiles, expounding Dutch colloquialisms, verses of insight passed from generation on down.
And contrasting all of Inez's possessions are photographs. People framed to define a precise moment and emotion. These photos are of all of us broken people. Some, speaking personally, like myself - are more broken than others but each of us made whole again when gathered around her. Individuals who when re-assembled as a family certainly become greater than the sum of our parts. Individuals whom, when fed the delicious left-overs Inez has remade into comfort food become whole again. Made whole again by an woman who's love, beauty, laughter, passion and home define true artistry.
27 mei 2009
Chain Reactions: 10 Life Lessons on How to Get a Grip, by E. Jonathans
I learned to ride my first bicycle on Susan Way in the pre-Silicon Valley epicenter of Sunnyvale, CA., circa 1967. Its a magnolia tree lined, middle class neighborhood book-ended by Knickerbocker Rd. and Bernardo Ave. Susan Way was safe compared to what lay beyond. Those other two streets… just their names sounded menacing. Try explaining to a 5 year old what a Knickerbocker is? And Bernardo!?! My minds eye squinted from the glare of unknown bullies amidst a then hardscrabble fruit canning factory, cold-war defense industry community. Fuhgetaboutit…. not gonna let him burn my nards.
“Mom, why can’t I learn on the sidewalk? The street is too rough!” My mom, who when agitated still speaks a chompur [Bahasa Indonesian word for mixed up] version of coarse Dutch and broken English, said “I already told you, the sidewalk is too narrow, you need more room while you learn to ride. Now begin – pedal hard now – ok - here you go – NAY - don’t - look – DOWN... KIJK UIT… stop crying – your OK - hou op! - the neighbors might call an ambulance.”
You may appreciate my confusion. A EurAsian mom, whom instructs you in halting, didactic english begins admonishing you for crying [remember I’m only 5 and a tad bit traumatized at the sight of blood pouring out from multiple wounds] in a European language you barely know. Thank God for therapy.
First responder on scene was Mrs. Dudley, a chain smoking ER nurse and our next door neighbor. “OK, the gravel is all cleaned up, lets just rinse this road tar off with some special water.” Nurse Dudley, failing to mention its actually Isopropyl Alcohol, tellingly bites her lip while approaching with the soaking wet gauze.
In a fitful reaction to the sadistic application of said IPA, I begin hysterically screaming; hyper-ventilating and flailing all limbs in an interpretive dance titled: eAkimbo – Suffering and Snot Gone Amok! To which Nurse Dudley [using her best sugarcane sweet voice that denied her untold evil] replied, “There now, not so bad. I’ll put a little round band-aid on each of the boo-boos. But remember if you peel them off too soon you’ll have these big, ugly round holes all over your body.” I respond by initiating the 2nd act of a now bio-hazardous Snot Gone Amok dance.
Life Lesson #1: Where you look is where you’ll end-up. Keep your eye’s on the prize and pay close attention to all the street signs along the way.
Life Lesson #2: The majority of ER nurses are funny, loving, warped, compassionate yet distant, angels. Fractional truth is a tool that softens the delivery of both emotionally and physically painful realities, and is used as much for their own personal amusement as it is for their continued mental health.
Russ was my true BFF. May he continue to RIP it Upstairs just like he ripp’d it down here on earth. First day of kindergarten Russ taught me to tie my shoes. A few winters later he was my snow ski instructor. That next summer Russ showed me how to not only survive on bodyboard at the crushing 14th St. beach break in Santa Cruz but how to get shacked.
And of course we rode dirt. Together we’d explore Santa Clara County back when you could do so without hitting a street for stretches on end. In summer we’d roll down the block to the orchard where we’d pluck Bing Cherries from tree limbs bowed by the weight of their blood red, t-shirt staining juices. While filling brown paper grocery bags full of loot, a transcript of his typical mid-pilf banter would sound like: [Russ] “no, he didn’t see us - hurry - fill it up - shut up - it won’t rip - it is NOT too heavy - just hurry – OH $#!+ here comes Farmer Olsen - ride… go - go – go. [Me]: ”ouch – oww – ouch!”
Life Lesson #3: when factoring off axis weight to load distribution over the distal steering controls of an Ape hanger + Banana seat + Sissy bar festooned Schwinn Stingray [factory equipped with slick, pre-knobby tires], an ill-planned, hyper-ballistic exit strategy over a dirt clod strewn riding surface, said rider will NOT have a chance in hell to out distance the wide area dispersal pattern of 12-gauge shotgun deployed rock salt.
Our payoff: more little round bandages dispensed by Nurse Doomsday.
Life Lesson #4: Possibly explains why our grammar school was named Cherry Chase Elementary.
Behind Robin Way @ Highway 85 bmx track Russ arranges his three amigos under the shadow of an old growth oak tree. He’s got me laying down face up against the lip of a mini-kicker. Richard is next to me and Gary has won Russ’ unwavering loyalty by choosing the position within mil-spec tolerance of projected landing zone. I refuse and turn over, arguing “no you’ll get dirt in my eyes.” Russ and the others implore me, “come on - lie face up – you don’t want to miss this do you?”
Life Lesson #5: no matter how effusive peer group pressure gets, remember that when doing life’s dirty work - facing your fears and praying face down are NOT mutually exclusive.
6th grade [1973]. A lot can transpire over the course of 180+ school days. BroMances and fights, suspended for smoking, Lynette...
My teacher Mrs. Eberley was cool. Our class mascot was a 5 foot long boa constrictor. She even had us breed fresh pinkies [mice] much to Eve’s gastronomical and our voyeuristic pleasure.
Mrs Eberly believed in me and told me I’m better student than I believed myself to be. “Prove me right” she challenged. Dad went all in too. He’d put it out there, get straight A’s and he’d step-up and purchase my dream ride: an orange and black Yamaha Moto-Bike. To my knowledge, the first production dual-squishy bmx ride to hit the market. Yup, I claimed it. It may have been my report on the Silver Back gorilla that pushed a faltering GPA into the promised land.
But I left it [the bike, not the girlfriend] unlocked and the garage door open. T’was gone in 60 seconds.
Life Lesson #6: Put your 1st love on lock down or she’ll break - nay - CRUSH your heart.
On Santa Clara St., in San Jose, circa late 80’s, some marketing stroke authored a slogan to quiet downtown denzions weary from redevelopment: Downtown is Growing Up. An urban tagger self-edited the billboard to more accurately proclaim: San Jose is Throwing Up.
As an entrepreneurial SJSU student I joined Inner-City Express, a start-up a bike delivery service. We’d cranked out court filings for law firms and save work junkies from impending malnutrition. I even once raced a FAX machine for a PR stunt. I won but it was close.
Dispatcher: “I.C.E.2, p/u at ToGo’s - deliver to PRx ASP – copy?”
I.C.E. 2 [Me]: “10-4 base, whata they got?"
Dispatch [mockingly]: “family size, 6ft. sandwich”
I.C.E. 2: “Roger that”
Deana [Togo’s manager]: “YOU ARE GOING TO WHAT!?!”
I.C.E. 2: “No worries, just help me get this outside.” Now straddling my trusty steed – a Bridgestone MB-2: “ok lets get it over the back of my neck – yeah - across my shoulders – good – gotta get my gloves on each end – good - now just hold the bars straight and give me a little push to get started… “
Deana [now shouting]: “uhhh, how are you going to stop?!?”
I.C.E. 2: “… first I gotta get there”
Life Lesson #7: A strong and faithful heart, a confident and willing attitude, a desire to serve others and the ability to improvise can overcome an imperfect strategy [good balance also helps].
Cobb, CA – Boggs Mt., State Demonstration Forest, 1992. Judging by the sun’s position it’s after 8pm… my fiance and I are mid-point on the final sweep collecting pink course markers, empty water bottles and gear lost by novice, and pro racers alike. In the pre-dawn shadows around 5am we’d awoke to the rumble of US Army reservists rolling HumVee’s up to the staging/start area. 20 additional minutes of shut-eye the only cost for free first aid / medi-vac / communications support. As the race director there are few details better left to others.
Di: “Do you have any more water?”
“Its all gone” I reply, followed by an uncomfortable, seemingly eternal silence… the knowing type of quiet that reverberates inside your skull. And even when you TRY to stop listening, it reminds you – bad answer.
My head was suddenly lifted and I nodded ahead towards the trail horizon gently whispering to her “come, let’s travel-on.” Di silently agrees, gesturing slightly that I should now push her bike. Five minutes and at best 100 yards closer to our camp she points towards a Café Ole colored puddle. Its about as long as a tight six-man breakaway, four abreast wide and valve stem cap length deep. “What’s that?” Di asked.
“What - where?” I ask as my eye’s scan ahead. “There in middle of that puddle, see that gold wrapper,” the volume of her voice grew with hope.
I nearly dove into the puddle to retrieve this glimmer of what could be our salvation. We celebrated, high-fiving and hugging… our spirits buoyed by the discovery of a partially opened and slightly muddy snack. Willing to forgo the 5 second rule, she ravenously munched it down. We made it out before nightfall and our relationship survived.
Life Lesson #8: One man’s trash is anothers treasure.
Immediately I began to systematically deconstruct the chain of events. The scientist in me reasoned this must be a case of Darwinism in action. Straining under oxygen deficit/lactic acid build up, RacerX mis-calculated a feed zone, then while impulsively reaching into a jersey pocket, blew her line. She then over corrected to avoid wheel sucking puddle only to fumble away the very nourishment her brain desired. Its all about planning, processing and execution, isn’t it???
Life Lesson #9: Race day meal prep can be as simple as pre-tearing the wrappers [Keep it Simple Stupid or K.I.S.S. it goodbye…]
So I could continue to reason that RacerX’s grip strength or more accurately her lack thereof, caused a finish time result to be listed as DNF. But now, reflecting with an older and possibly wiser spiritual consciousness, my heart and soul gratefully acknowledge that at HIS 10,000 ft. view it was no mere [double entendre intentional] accident. He allowed Diana’s life time result to include MRS and MOM.
Life lesson#10: TRUST in your HIGHER POWER{BAR}!!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Edward Jonathans 46, is the founder and managing partner at http://im.bragbox.com still lives and rides in Northern California with his wife Diana, two kids Parker and Brooke, Tenen, the trail loving/frisbee obsessed Border Collie/Aussie mix and Hobbes, a tabby cat that doesn’t ride.
Jonathans still rides a beat down and used up Santa Cruz Tazmon. He’s still out scoring air time and pumping the rhythm sections at Calabazas Park but at risk of great marital upset… its on her Specialized hardtail.
And as yet, he remains unable to convince the three of them to lie down under the lip of a kicker... ;-P
I learned to ride my first bicycle on Susan Way in the pre-Silicon Valley epicenter of Sunnyvale, CA., circa 1967. Its a magnolia tree lined, middle class neighborhood book-ended by Knickerbocker Rd. and Bernardo Ave. Susan Way was safe compared to what lay beyond. Those other two streets… just their names sounded menacing. Try explaining to a 5 year old what a Knickerbocker is? And Bernardo!?! My minds eye squinted from the glare of unknown bullies amidst a then hardscrabble fruit canning factory, cold-war defense industry community. Fuhgetaboutit…. not gonna let him burn my nards.
“Mom, why can’t I learn on the sidewalk? The street is too rough!” My mom, who when agitated still speaks a chompur [Bahasa Indonesian word for mixed up] version of coarse Dutch and broken English, said “I already told you, the sidewalk is too narrow, you need more room while you learn to ride. Now begin – pedal hard now – ok - here you go – NAY - don’t - look – DOWN... KIJK UIT… stop crying – your OK - hou op! - the neighbors might call an ambulance.”
You may appreciate my confusion. A EurAsian mom, whom instructs you in halting, didactic english begins admonishing you for crying [remember I’m only 5 and a tad bit traumatized at the sight of blood pouring out from multiple wounds] in a European language you barely know. Thank God for therapy.
First responder on scene was Mrs. Dudley, a chain smoking ER nurse and our next door neighbor. “OK, the gravel is all cleaned up, lets just rinse this road tar off with some special water.” Nurse Dudley, failing to mention its actually Isopropyl Alcohol, tellingly bites her lip while approaching with the soaking wet gauze.
In a fitful reaction to the sadistic application of said IPA, I begin hysterically screaming; hyper-ventilating and flailing all limbs in an interpretive dance titled: eAkimbo – Suffering and Snot Gone Amok! To which Nurse Dudley [using her best sugarcane sweet voice that denied her untold evil] replied, “There now, not so bad. I’ll put a little round band-aid on each of the boo-boos. But remember if you peel them off too soon you’ll have these big, ugly round holes all over your body.” I respond by initiating the 2nd act of a now bio-hazardous Snot Gone Amok dance.
Life Lesson #1: Where you look is where you’ll end-up. Keep your eye’s on the prize and pay close attention to all the street signs along the way.
Life Lesson #2: The majority of ER nurses are funny, loving, warped, compassionate yet distant, angels. Fractional truth is a tool that softens the delivery of both emotionally and physically painful realities, and is used as much for their own personal amusement as it is for their continued mental health.
Russ was my true BFF. May he continue to RIP it Upstairs just like he ripp’d it down here on earth. First day of kindergarten Russ taught me to tie my shoes. A few winters later he was my snow ski instructor. That next summer Russ showed me how to not only survive on bodyboard at the crushing 14th St. beach break in Santa Cruz but how to get shacked.
And of course we rode dirt. Together we’d explore Santa Clara County back when you could do so without hitting a street for stretches on end. In summer we’d roll down the block to the orchard where we’d pluck Bing Cherries from tree limbs bowed by the weight of their blood red, t-shirt staining juices. While filling brown paper grocery bags full of loot, a transcript of his typical mid-pilf banter would sound like: [Russ] “no, he didn’t see us - hurry - fill it up - shut up - it won’t rip - it is NOT too heavy - just hurry – OH $#!+ here comes Farmer Olsen - ride… go - go – go. [Me]: ”ouch – oww – ouch!”
Life Lesson #3: when factoring off axis weight to load distribution over the distal steering controls of an Ape hanger + Banana seat + Sissy bar festooned Schwinn Stingray [factory equipped with slick, pre-knobby tires], an ill-planned, hyper-ballistic exit strategy over a dirt clod strewn riding surface, said rider will NOT have a chance in hell to out distance the wide area dispersal pattern of 12-gauge shotgun deployed rock salt.
Our payoff: more little round bandages dispensed by Nurse Doomsday.
Life Lesson #4: Possibly explains why our grammar school was named Cherry Chase Elementary.
Behind Robin Way @ Highway 85 bmx track Russ arranges his three amigos under the shadow of an old growth oak tree. He’s got me laying down face up against the lip of a mini-kicker. Richard is next to me and Gary has won Russ’ unwavering loyalty by choosing the position within mil-spec tolerance of projected landing zone. I refuse and turn over, arguing “no you’ll get dirt in my eyes.” Russ and the others implore me, “come on - lie face up – you don’t want to miss this do you?”
Life Lesson #5: no matter how effusive peer group pressure gets, remember that when doing life’s dirty work - facing your fears and praying face down are NOT mutually exclusive.
6th grade [1973]. A lot can transpire over the course of 180+ school days. BroMances and fights, suspended for smoking, Lynette...
My teacher Mrs. Eberley was cool. Our class mascot was a 5 foot long boa constrictor. She even had us breed fresh pinkies [mice] much to Eve’s gastronomical and our voyeuristic pleasure.
Mrs Eberly believed in me and told me I’m better student than I believed myself to be. “Prove me right” she challenged. Dad went all in too. He’d put it out there, get straight A’s and he’d step-up and purchase my dream ride: an orange and black Yamaha Moto-Bike. To my knowledge, the first production dual-squishy bmx ride to hit the market. Yup, I claimed it. It may have been my report on the Silver Back gorilla that pushed a faltering GPA into the promised land.
But I left it [the bike, not the girlfriend] unlocked and the garage door open. T’was gone in 60 seconds.
Life Lesson #6: Put your 1st love on lock down or she’ll break - nay - CRUSH your heart.
On Santa Clara St., in San Jose, circa late 80’s, some marketing stroke authored a slogan to quiet downtown denzions weary from redevelopment: Downtown is Growing Up. An urban tagger self-edited the billboard to more accurately proclaim: San Jose is Throwing Up.
As an entrepreneurial SJSU student I joined Inner-City Express, a start-up a bike delivery service. We’d cranked out court filings for law firms and save work junkies from impending malnutrition. I even once raced a FAX machine for a PR stunt. I won but it was close.
Dispatcher: “I.C.E.2, p/u at ToGo’s - deliver to PRx ASP – copy?”
I.C.E. 2 [Me]: “10-4 base, whata they got?"
Dispatch [mockingly]: “family size, 6ft. sandwich”
I.C.E. 2: “Roger that”
Deana [Togo’s manager]: “YOU ARE GOING TO WHAT!?!”
I.C.E. 2: “No worries, just help me get this outside.” Now straddling my trusty steed – a Bridgestone MB-2: “ok lets get it over the back of my neck – yeah - across my shoulders – good – gotta get my gloves on each end – good - now just hold the bars straight and give me a little push to get started… “
Deana [now shouting]: “uhhh, how are you going to stop?!?”
I.C.E. 2: “… first I gotta get there”
Life Lesson #7: A strong and faithful heart, a confident and willing attitude, a desire to serve others and the ability to improvise can overcome an imperfect strategy [good balance also helps].
Cobb, CA – Boggs Mt., State Demonstration Forest, 1992. Judging by the sun’s position it’s after 8pm… my fiance and I are mid-point on the final sweep collecting pink course markers, empty water bottles and gear lost by novice, and pro racers alike. In the pre-dawn shadows around 5am we’d awoke to the rumble of US Army reservists rolling HumVee’s up to the staging/start area. 20 additional minutes of shut-eye the only cost for free first aid / medi-vac / communications support. As the race director there are few details better left to others.
Di: “Do you have any more water?”
“Its all gone” I reply, followed by an uncomfortable, seemingly eternal silence… the knowing type of quiet that reverberates inside your skull. And even when you TRY to stop listening, it reminds you – bad answer.
My head was suddenly lifted and I nodded ahead towards the trail horizon gently whispering to her “come, let’s travel-on.” Di silently agrees, gesturing slightly that I should now push her bike. Five minutes and at best 100 yards closer to our camp she points towards a Café Ole colored puddle. Its about as long as a tight six-man breakaway, four abreast wide and valve stem cap length deep. “What’s that?” Di asked.
“What - where?” I ask as my eye’s scan ahead. “There in middle of that puddle, see that gold wrapper,” the volume of her voice grew with hope.
I nearly dove into the puddle to retrieve this glimmer of what could be our salvation. We celebrated, high-fiving and hugging… our spirits buoyed by the discovery of a partially opened and slightly muddy snack. Willing to forgo the 5 second rule, she ravenously munched it down. We made it out before nightfall and our relationship survived.
Life Lesson #8: One man’s trash is anothers treasure.
Immediately I began to systematically deconstruct the chain of events. The scientist in me reasoned this must be a case of Darwinism in action. Straining under oxygen deficit/lactic acid build up, RacerX mis-calculated a feed zone, then while impulsively reaching into a jersey pocket, blew her line. She then over corrected to avoid wheel sucking puddle only to fumble away the very nourishment her brain desired. Its all about planning, processing and execution, isn’t it???
Life Lesson #9: Race day meal prep can be as simple as pre-tearing the wrappers [Keep it Simple Stupid or K.I.S.S. it goodbye…]
So I could continue to reason that RacerX’s grip strength or more accurately her lack thereof, caused a finish time result to be listed as DNF. But now, reflecting with an older and possibly wiser spiritual consciousness, my heart and soul gratefully acknowledge that at HIS 10,000 ft. view it was no mere [double entendre intentional] accident. He allowed Diana’s life time result to include MRS and MOM.
Life lesson#10: TRUST in your HIGHER POWER{BAR}!!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Edward Jonathans 46, is the founder and managing partner at http://im.bragbox.com still lives and rides in Northern California with his wife Diana, two kids Parker and Brooke, Tenen, the trail loving/frisbee obsessed Border Collie/Aussie mix and Hobbes, a tabby cat that doesn’t ride.
Jonathans still rides a beat down and used up Santa Cruz Tazmon. He’s still out scoring air time and pumping the rhythm sections at Calabazas Park but at risk of great marital upset… its on her Specialized hardtail.
And as yet, he remains unable to convince the three of them to lie down under the lip of a kicker... ;-P
Abonneren op:
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