I've noticed an interesting phenomenon in myself. When we were on our honeymoon, and I arrived at Yosemite, I felt an amazing sense of accomplishment. I had "taken myself" to Yosemite. You spend your life having people take you places. This is a good thing; let me take you to the movies, to my favorite resturaunt, on a hike. But, as my husband will surely attest, I am a very independent person. And taking myself to Yosemite for the first time was meaningful. The honeymoon continued, and this phrase forgotten, life went on.
A few months later, we moved about 300 miles away. The day we moved all of our belongings, it became obvious that me riding my motorcycle down rather than trailering it was a practical option due to space. Always excited to ride, I definitely put up no argument to this idea. As I rode south behind two trailers full of our possessions, I had a lot of time for reflection. This idea of "taking myself to our new home" was front and center.
Riding a motorcycle is the ultimate in independence. You can have people teach you, it's always nice to have people to ride with, but ultimately, you are the one watching the road or the trail, you are watching the cars as they move themselves obliviously around the tarmac, you are watching for people's eyes, subtle shifts in tire position, erratic behavior, oncoming vehicles, animals, pedestrians, and debris. Additionally, for a verbal processor like me, there is the conversation going on between different parts of myself. There is the watchful part, ever careful of the drivers around me. There is the excited gleeful part, that seems to almost always be present on a motorcycle. There is the mindful part, checking in with my physical being - am I hungry? thirsty? tired? sore? anything that may dull my senses? And there is this other part. I can only describe it as feeling completely connected to my sensory experience. The sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and sometimes tastes are so vibrant when riding. And it's just me. No one is having the experience I am having in that moment, and it's nearly impossible to share moment to moment experience as I am encapsulated in the bubble of my helmet.
At times, especially off road, I become faced with my inner monsters; the fear monster, the anxiety monster, the embarrassment monster, and the I don't know how to do that monster. Again and again, I face these monsters, again drawing upon my independent spirit to take myself back to the truck; often, there is little other option. And recently, starting to ride a dual sport, not only do I get to face these trail monsters, but I get to take myself to the trail, and back home.
I find myself needing to feed my independence. I don't want to be an island; I love people and connection. I adore my partner who celebrates my independence and takes it in stride. I have found two big things that feed this independence: being a therapist and riding my motorcycle. I have learned that there is an interconnectedness that intermingles with independence. On my bike, I am still part of a larger riding community, evidenced by the waves of fellow motorcyclists. I am part of the societal contract that gives us rules for the road. I am always part of a family, whether or not they are with me at the time. As a therapist, I am always only a small part of someone's life. They too, brought themselves to my office in some fashion. I am always part of a team, and part of the larger helping community. Yet in both of these instances, it is my compass that guides my decisions, helps me to decide when to reach out for help, and guides me toward fulfilling my dreams. I take myself to unexplored territory, confident, independent, and always connected.
