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Normal

 


Last year, I registered for a 14-day, 1,000 mile bike tour in Colorado.  The tour had close to 70,000 feet of climbing, all at high altitude.  Starting in March of last year, I trained hard.  I rode my bike five or six days a week, had a structured training plan, and followed it closely.  Every day, I would ride, then work, or work, then ride.  Weekends were consumed by long rides with lots of climbing.  That was the routine.  That was the rhythm.  That was the normal.  By the time July and the bike tour rolled around, I was in the best cycling shape of my life.  The tour was more than I ever thought it would be, and I felt great for all 14 days.  My training paid off.  Five days later, Scott died.

In January of this year, I signed up for another bike tour, also in July, also big miles, also lots of climbing.  I was excited for it.  I was ready to start training for it.  But.  Things happened.  Life happened.  The logistics of the tour, getting there, being gone for that long, struggling to find someone to watch the cats and dogs, missing work, all felt like too much.  Thoughts of the tour became more stressful than exciting.   I once read a quote that said, "Proceed as the way opens."  The way of the bike tour felt pretty closed.  On Monday of this week, I emailed the company and told them I needed to back out, that life was too unsettled right now to make it happen. 

Instead, I registered for a one-day, 85-mile gravel race in Hamilton on August 2.  August 2 is also the one-year mark of Scott's death.  I don't know what that day will look like, but I think it will look a lot better from a bicycle.  A one-day race feels manageable.  It feels accessible, not overwhelming or stressful.  However, the training for a one-day, 85-mile race is much different than for a two-week, 1,000 mile tour.  And it's not till August.  

This morning on our dog walk, I looked at Shannon and said, "I feel lost.  Last year was so structured.  Every day, I knew exactly what my training looked like.  This year isn't like that.  I don't know what I should do today."

He looked back at me, grinning.  "You say that with a smile," he said.

I nodded, smiled bigger.  The freedom felt good.  I could do a long road ride, or a hike, or a gravel ride, or any other number of things.  I chose a gravel ride, and it was spectacular.  

Last year, I had registered for the same 85-mile gravel race.  Last year it was held on August 3.  I texted Chad on August 2 and told him I would not make it to the race, that Scott had just died.  Last year, I had planned to do a few backpacking trips in the fall after my tour and race were finished.  I didn't have it in me after Scott died.  "Life is what happens when you're busy making plans," they say.

I got a text from a friend this morning.  It read, "Maybe the new rhythm right now is that there is no rhythm."  I think she's right.  We make plans, we seek rhythm, we crave normal.  Normal is a facade, a fallacy that offers us the illusion of control.  Really, there is no normal.  

I didn't plan for my mom to go into memory care.  I didn't plan for my husband to die.  I also never expected to find love again.  Yet here I am.  Sometimes it feels like the harder I strive for normal, for rhythm, the more elusive it becomes.  When I am able let go, like today, things feel easier.  For me, realizing and accepting that there is no normal, that every day has its own rhythm, and that every day is different, offers a modicum of peace.  

As the Buddha once said, "Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness."  

Easier said than done, but I am sure going to give it my best shot.   


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