The Gospel According to Mountain Biking.

In a spontaneous moment driving through Colorado, I stopped at a ski resort and signed up for a mountain biking lesson. I’d done something similar years before, but that time we rode casually down the gradual wide CAT roads to the bottom. This time, I was taken into the trees to a small twisty trail where I had to navigate rocks, roots, and hairpin-turns. I lived to write this, but what stuck with me along with the aches and pains was something my instructor said before we began a particularly difficult patch: “Keep your head up, and pick a good line.” 

When making your way down a mountain, there are countless things over which you must ride: rocks, roots, holes, branches. The turns are sudden, the incline, at times, excessively steep. Keeping your head up means looking ahead. If you ride with your head down, you will focus on the rock at your wheel and not the turn up ahead. It’s hard to lift your head and look ahead, but each time I managed it, I rode smoothly down the trail. When I didn’t, I struggled and, yes, fell.

On the trails, there were different ways to go. On the left side, it could look smooth but a root or two might jut out to test you. On the right, there could be exposed rocks from a recent downpour. And in the middle, there might be a small gravel stretch that, if you hit it, would get you down effortlessly. You’d make it down whatever line you picked, but not all routes were equal. There were better lines, and the trick was to pick a good one and go.

As is my nature, I sat at the bottom of the mountain thinking about the life lessons to be found in mountain biking. His advice was easy to apply to my life. I could remember many times when I focused on the rocks and roots and did not keep my head up. I was so focused on the immediate challenge I did not look ahead. I also have many scars, bumps and bruises from not picking the best lines. I’ve made it down, but the line I chose was often more difficult than it had to be. 

Maybe my recent lesson will help me navigate what trail I have left more successfully. Maybe I’ll keep my head up and look ahead and pick good lines. I sure hope so.

Unique Works of Art

”Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-From “The Summer Day“ by Mary Oliver

At the school whereI began my teaching career, they encouraged us to use the mimeograph machine rather than the xerox machine in an effort to save money. For those too young to have ever heard of such a thing, the mimeograph machine takes an original piece and then makes copies from the original as it circles around a drum loaded with ink. It was cheaper than the copy machine, but with every copy the ink was lighter, the words more faint. If you made enough copies, I suppose, eventually the words would be too faint to read.

It was not unlike my approach to painting when I started out. I took someone else’s work and tried to copy it. Because I was not very good, my version was nothing like the original so there was no worries of plagerism, but, like the mimeograph machine, the spiritual lesson was sitting on the canvas for me to discover.

Each of us was created unique, a one of a kind work of art. It’s one of the most basic and wonderful spiritual truths that we so often forget, or choose not to embrace. Instead, we spend our lives trying to be like other people. Maybe it’s a father or mother, teacher, or friend. We see someone we admire and set out to be like them. Following the examples of others can be a wonderful inspiration, but not when it comes at the cost of who WE are. If we try to imitate others, our uniqueness becomes more faint with each turn of the drum. The words of our own life become too faint to read.

I remember the story of a devout Jew named Isaac who died and, when at heaven’s gate, tried to explain how hard he tried to be Moses. God shook his head and said he was kind of hoping he would be Isaac. 

I am guilty of trying to be someone other than who I was created to be. In the shadow of an amazing father, I thought it was my job to carry on his life through mine, as a teacher I tried to be like Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, and as a father I always wanted to be Atticus Finch as played by Gregory Peck in the movie adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird. In each case, and countless others, I’ve been unsuccessful. Perhaps it’s time to stop the mimeograph machine and create a unique work of art out of the precious life I’ve been given. 

Want to try it, too?

Letting Go of the Rope

A friend recently described the time she first tried to water ski. She got up after only a few tries and was delighted by her early success. As she lifted an arm to show her delight to the onlookers in the boat, she caught an edge and plummeted into the lake. While her story at this point was not unique, the fact that she continued to hold the rope after hitting the water was. For an embarrassingly long time, she was dragged in the water until it dawned on her to let go. Free, she floated to the surface where she could breathe again and the boat could turn and come back for her.

The story was told in a wonderfully self-deprecating way that drew everyone listening closer. Her story, and her willingness to share it, allowed us to admit the times when we, too, fell head first into the water after a brief moment of success, when we were guilty of holding onto the rope after falling, and when we nearly drowned. Fortunately, we also learned to let go of the rope and float up to where we could breathe again, and, through the grace of God, others could turn the boat and come back for us. 

Today is the first anniversary of a dear friend getting sober. My heart is full, not because she fell, but because she let go of the rope and returned to the surface. On behalf of her husband, children, and folks who love her, we in the boat are so happy to have her back!