The "Keeper" Pile

No worries. I'm struggling too.

I had a vague sense of somebody behind me, even though he had not said a word. Not until I glanced over my shoulder, and realized I had been weaving, tracing erratic figure eights over the center line on the bike path. I was mortified. Sorry, I mumbled, inching back over to the right, keeping my head down.

Could he tell, I wondered, that it wasn't just my legs that were struggling to get me up the incline. There are no real hills in my neck of the woods; the anomalous upward tilt in the path had caught me by surprise, after two hours of pure flat.

I was so caught up in my daydream, I had barely even noticed my labored breathing. There are plenty of mountains in my daydreams, those "over the hill" kind of mountains that seem so daunting, the kind that take my breath away just by being there. I've always relied upon my solitary runs or bike rides or, more commonly lately, long walks for some productive deep thinking. I would compose lectures in my head, when I taught, figure out how to juggle three kids and a job and a flailing marriage. My work has changed, my children have left, and, well, the flailing marriage failed. These days, it's tough to find solutions when I can't even put my finger on the problems.

It's kind of like peering into my overstuffed closet, wanting desperately to clear it out but having no clue where to start. Someone told me, the other day, that she starts by pulling out the things she loves. It's easier, after that, to figure out what to toss. Forget about the discard pile, it's the "keeper" pile that matters. It seemed so radical. So brilliant. Focusing on the good stuff I already have is a skill I have yet to master, and my closet seems as good a place as any to do a practice run.

I'm struggling too. His smile was kind, and he was decent enough to keep the pass slow, lingering a bit in front of me so he could leave me with a shred of dignity before he left me in his dust. I pedaled furiously, determined to prove (to whom, I couldn't say) that I was doing just fine. At least my legs were.

It's one of the hazards of an afternoon ride on a summer Sunday. Norman Rockwell's America rolls by -- picnickers, leisurely paddlers in the lagoon, couples chatting away on their bikes. Life in the suburbs, built for twos, and threes, and fours, as I ponder the universe on my bicycle built for one. Forgetting, momentarily, that I actually have a bicycle, and the wherewithal to go out and ride it on a beautiful summer afternoon.

No doubt, the nice gentleman who passed me has his own struggles, as do the picnickers and the kayakers and the chattering couples. But out on a sunny afternoon, we are all the "haves," and not, by any stretch of the imagination, the "have-nots." The discard pile can wait.