balance

something about the ways we twist and turn, we kick and scream, we flounder blindly upstream. something about the way gentle swinging tunes get our heads to bobbing without even realizing, and the way that my balance has suddenly, startlingly returned, so much so that i rode miles and miles home from work sitting upright with my hands fluttering on my thighs, far from the handlebars.

i remember that night in portland, my brief winter return, after the craft fair and the cheap burrito place with all those bins of spiced carrots and onions, that night when it seemed like a good sign about things, the way that we matched in our short skirts and fannypacks beneath our big messenger bags, our home-knitted legwarmers. (sometimes chicago seems too grey and too loud for my quiet, colorful yearnings; i miss the scruffy dresses and bright optimism i used to clothe myself in, back then when life was damp but endlessly intriguing.)

that night while we pedaled back to someone's house for band practice and i said i'd never been able to ride with no hands, never been able to let go entirely and leave the rest of it up to fate, or gravity, or the intuitive minute inner balancing of my own body, and she told me of a friend who'd finally learned how only when he realized it's not in the thinking about it but in the act of merely doing.

and later, back in chicago on an icy night going home i sat up straight to ease my aching back, raised my hands to rest on my woolly hat, and rode unflinching through the chilly air for blocks before i even realized i'd forgotten to keep my grasp.

i need a bit of urgency in everything, most of the time, but every now and then it's a relief to remember that not everything takes so much drive, so much willpower. maybe the best things of all happen when you forget to pay attention. instinct? or maybe abandon of some sort.

(my fingers pulling notes from the banjo always seem to move better when i stop staring at the strings and let the song carry itself easily along instead)