I don't quite know what to make of this news, upon his death, from London.
Many many years ago his Road Less Traveled was seminal in my growing up. I read it after my first year in college, while a summer camp counselor. It didn't all make sense to me, but I knew it was on the right track. I knew that self-discipline would get me far, and that I could delay gratification, and that Love was more than a feeling. I knew I wanted to be able to extend myself for others. It would be many years before I learned about not overextending myself for the "fix" of helping someone else.
As much as I admire Peck's incredible work and perhaps brilliance, I'm not surprised he was human. But we women have this problem with infidelity. Just doesn't sit well. I've been known to get livid at even the thought.
On the other hand, I was willing to overlook Clinton's indiscretions, but less so Guiliani. I still hold Woody Allen's affair against him, (with Mia Farrow's adopted daughter) and can't stand Woody Harralson anymore, (after he portrayed that sleazy magazine editor... see? I've blocked the name! tho I suppose it was just a "gig") and yet Mel Gibson's running around seems to be easily expected (loose nut and all that).
Anyway, some would say it's the Scots in me. My clan motto, if indeed we are descended from clan McLeod, as I fully expect, is "Hold Fast". (grin) Go figure.
The name was changed to Cloud hundreds of years ago but not many get as excited around bagpipes as I, so it has to be firmly from the clan you see. And you surely know my dear sweet adorable cairn who, as it happens, originates from MY clan island, Isle of Skye - and we even have a beautiful castle, living breathing and the chief, John MacLeod resides there still!
One more funny thing - I used to get teased by a dear friend in college for dating so many redheads. Now I won't go into what kilts do for me, but well, redheads are a special breed.
But I digress.
Ok, ok, because I liked Peck, he's "allowed" to be human. But because I admired him so much, the knowledge of his personal failings are harder to take, especially when I've read accounts about his marriage written by his own hand. The same words that once moved me to deeper thought, to admire him, now ring inflated and empty.
His fondness for gin is easier to forgive somehow. The habit flies in the face of his emphasis on self discipline (the key to personal growth) but just more socially acceptable perhaps, especially to a Scotswoman (grimace).
We expect our leaders and heros to be above us - hence the elevation in the first place, right?
He said he was more prophet than saint, according to the story above. Aren't we all?
The older I get, the more idols fall, the more human we all get to be. Maybe this is the root of compassion, understanding of our failings and seeing how they connect us all.
Truly we all do the best we can - no harm in that. Most of the time I can see people this way, and still love and respect them. Even when my heart is broken.
v
There is the early morning, cold and unforgiving wind whipping my neon yellow jacket. But the fog lifts slowly and there is just me and the bike, flying free down the road to no where.
I see small birds and morning glories and scuttling black furry caterpillars cross my path. Then butterflies and soaring falcon, wings swept back. She has nothing on me, but height. I soar and find my pace.
Up hills I notice my breath, sometimes breathing like birth, two deep breaths in, one long one out hard, rib cage expanding for all it's worth, legs gasping for air, hands changing gears, mind wrangling with whether I can make it, and if not can I get my right foot unlocked from the stern pedal that holds me close, but traps me if I fail to free that shoe in time for leaning right.
Down steep hills I lean into my bike, praying for no hazards at the bottom, fearful of even peeking at my speed on my speedometer because my eyes would leave the brutal asphalt that threatens to swallow me up. Over all the fear is the unrelenting thrill of flying through the world, fully in it and transcendent all at once.
Then there is another hill.
And I keep going, up, down, steady on the flats, unsteady when fatigue sets in, chilled when I'm dehydrated, and sweating all the way. Muscles strain and my mind wanders to how this is so stripped down that all my earthly body parts show through spandex and I don't care and makeup isn't even missed and jewelry doesn't matter, it's me and my bike against the road and the wind and the heat.
And we meld with the road, the wind, the heat.
We roll mile after mile, talking to others on the path sometimes, but mostly alone wondering at the exquisite blueprint that came up with all the moving parts of me and the gears and the glorious water that slakes my thirst or dribbles down my jersey for desperate cooling.
It is the sheer reality of the ride that entices me.
v
That is, I love it when it WORKS!
And that even happens sometimes, miracle of miracles. But isn't it amazing how often technical things break - sure, there are more moving parts, so what? I know that binary code is just zeros and ones, so how hard can those be to organize? Yeesh.
Yes, the darn [breathing] blog isn't displayed correctly, (hence the hint to click the link). Alternatively you can scroll down on the main page.
Don't ask me why it isn't working. I have never had time for html, or more than basic web development. Big fast shiny databases have always held more sexy allure, along with all the fun of analyzing how to design the best system, and, even more exciting, how to get people to actually use them. (Jung would be proud of me, an armchair sociologist, or maybe social psychologist).
All I know is that "September" seems too much for my layout and Moveable type to handle, on this page, in this virtual space and so my blog is, mmm, interrupted. ?And seldom spell checked.
I'm am restless with the blog lately. I want a different look, softer graphics and pleasing colors. Strange that it would seem to call for redecorating, but I guess it's to be expected. We get bored staring at our own belly button, so we pierce it or add a tattoo or dress it up with a jewel or drape it with scarves...
I'm still not one to be big on decorating a room - an actual room. I love beautiful art, and comfort and practical things that WORK, unlike technology. I like old furniture that has many hands in it, from those that crafted it to those that fell asleep on the edge, or bumped their heads learning to walk, or cried on the hard unforgiving uncaring wood.
I love the spirit of the things that are handed down, as if all pieces could tell such stories, silent witnesses to the drama and ordinary days of people who once walked the earth, all with their own tale to tell...
So I'm trying to be patient with the blog, after all it has no arms, no cushions, no warm wood or weathered patina. It is such an infant in the world, and perhaps won't last, like the Edsel or like witch hunts and inquisitions and the torture devices that were de riguer once upon a time.
v
Ok - we're off today to Columbia to get on this very exciting ride to raise money for multiple sclerosis. (try to spell that without a checker!)
I'm ready - trained for 5 mos last year and again this year, since the spring. 40 miles last weekend.
It's hard to recall all the brilliant thoughts I had while riding all these months... there have been spills and near crashes (bounced off a parked pickup one day!) and I've met a ton of great people.
There's Wally who rides weekends without fancy gear, and he's had a stroke or some such, the way he has to steady his left hand on his hip. What a wonderful man he is, quiet and nice and so determined. I'm bringing him one of my old helmets because his got gone somewhere. He might even have MS.
And there's Becky, an amazing woman who struggles on the hills like me, but I call her the energizer Bunny because she just keeps going and going. Oh yeah, and she has type 1 diabetes - nicest woman you'll ever meet, but not in a sweet way, rather a woman of substance.
And Willy rode with me last weekend, a UPS driver who is also new to the game. We chatted about bikes and gear and rides. He's funny and knows life is good when your company cares about who you are. It makes a huge difference to have someone along for the ride - something about the energy of two that is more than two.
There was the 300 lb man I saw do 36 miles a few weeks ago.
Nothing but inspiration everywhere you look on these rides, even in the "hard bodies" that seem to have it "easy". We're all just doing our best, normal folks getting out for a good cause and incidentally getting some good cardio in.
I can't wait to do The Ride this weekend.
Send good thoughts, say prayers.
And think about how whenever you're new at something you always wobble. It's the danger of being around new or really tired riders. So being new is ok, and so is being tired.
But the wobblyness goes away after a while, whether it's walking, running, biking or VB programming. You'll get your sea legs, and be able to navigate through with grace, if you stick with it. Then comes the endurance part. And then knowing when to quit.
Quit when it isn't fun anymore. Not when you're scared or tired or lonely.
And remember that you always get wobbly when you're tired. So don't parent, or drive, or ride or code when you're worn out. Take a break and be good to yourself.
it's all good.
v
Try this site for lots of illumination.
And here is a reporter who is on the ground and talks about repression of info by limiting media access to damaged areas of New Orleans....
Be 'ware what you read and from whence you get your info. This, imnsho, is why the internet could save democracy.
v