“Some people think it’s holding that makes one strong—sometimes it’s letting go.” ~Unknown
Today, I sell my car. This might not seem like a big deal, but I've had my car for over 10 years. There are very few things in my life - outside my family - which have been constants in my life for more than 10 years. And so, I find myself having difficulty letting go. In every rational way, making this decision makes sense. I don't drive to work, the car is getting older and expensive to maintain, I have to pay to park. It's a manual car in a hilly city, and ZipCar is much more efficient. Plus, I'm doing a good deed by selling it; I'm selling it to a friend who really needs a car and I'm giving him a good deal. The net happiness of the universe will increase.
And...yet. When I look at the car, I see a friend, as absurd as that may sound to some of my fellow San Franciscans without cars. I see the car that drove me to my honeymoon flight. The car I drove from Austin to San Francisco in with my parents. That car is one of my last connections back to a life and memories which are quickly fading.
So, what's the point? The point is this: we are not logical decision makers. And that's a good thing! Life wouldn't be worth living if we were all Spock. But, at the same time, these memories and feelings can often cloud our judgment and keep us from making forward progress. It makes sense to sell my car! I will be happier. If I cling to the car, it will merely drain me of resources better spent on other topics, like my massage training. The memories are still there, they're not going anywhere. Hanging onto the car won't bring those experiences back; the past is past. Selling the car is an investment in my present and in my future.
(It helps that, since it's a friend buying the car, I can go visit it :] )
So...what's holding you back?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Story Time - There Is No End To The Mill Valley Bike Path
I haven't written in this space for a good while. The reason is simple; I haven't had anything I felt was worth listening to. A wise man once said "tis better to keep your mouth closed and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt." But, the other night I had something happen to me which felt profound. Whether it was profound depends, I suppose, on your point of view. It's a story that's been told many times by writers better than I. But this is my version.
The Bay area is a bit of a paradise for cyclists. There are trails criss-crossing the entire state, but particularly in and around San Francisco and Marin county. I like to ride, but I haven't been riding as much lately for a variety of reasons. A few weeks ago, though, I did the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage, which was 130 miles through Marin. I think it rekindled a desire in me to go riding, and that desire caught a bit of wind on Tuesday. I was at work, and feeling cooped up. Without no particular plan in mind, I looked on the web for something to do. There was a movie coming up - a film I'd wanted to see, a biopic of Jane Goodall - in Larkspur. Larkspur was about 20 miles from where I was, and I'd ridden my bike to work. I checked the clock - I had just enough time. It was foolish, stupid even. I didn't have a working head lamp. I really needed to get some things done. If I just wanted to see the movie, I could drive. There was no reason to ride my bicycle over 20 miles of hills.
But that wasn't, actually, the scariest part.
There is a particular bike path in Mill Valley, a city about 15 miles north, called, appropriately, the Mill Valley Bike Path. It's a beautiful stretch of bike trail that goes along a marsh. At the southern end, it connects up to a great road through Sausalito, that then connects to roads leading to the Golden Gate bridge, and on into San Francisco. Riding that stretch and back happens to be about 20-25 miles from my first apartment I shared with my brother in the Marina. When I first moved to the city, it represented just about the right amount of time and energy. My first few trips were to Sausalito only, but I pushed myself to get to the end of that trail. My brother and I rode it many times.
At the end of the trail, there is a busy intersection. Don't ask me the names of the roads, I don't know, but both of them are at least 4 lanes. It's not immediately obvious where to go on a bicycle; it sort of seems to come to a logical stop in the middle of nowhere. So, when I got to that point, I would turn back. The first few times I did it, I thought that someday I might go past that point. But, as time went on, time constraints, luck, and maybe a bit of fear of the unknown meant that I never did. Time passed, months went by. I often thought of that stretch. Once, I even had a guide - my brother - take me past that spot and up into Larkspur. But we ended up on a road that I couldn't remember, and I couldn't recreate what he'd done. Another time, I pushed myself to take one of the scary busy roads. It was getting dark, and I was scared of getting lost, and I turned back almost right away.
3 years passed. Tuesday, I set out for Larkspur. I bought a headlamp in Mill Valley. Darkness started to approach and I got to the end of the trail. I looked around. I checked Google. Across the road I saw a sidewalk. I walked my bike across. I saw it turned into a bit of a path. I started down it.
45 minutes later, I was in Larkspur.
There is no end to the Mill Valley Bike Path! It was all in my head! The path is almost completely continuous! All you have to do is cross the street and poke your head behind a few trees, and there it is! More path! It's right there! Thousands, maybe millions, of people have undoubtedly ridden right past it without even a thought! But, to me, for 3 years it was an insurmountable obstacle, a huge barrier, a wall keeping me inside. Oh, I was happy, certainly: I love the ride up to Mill Valley. It is a nice, doable length and just the right amount of time on a bike. But - and this is a huge but - now I can stop because I choose to, knowing that there is more path right there if I ever want it.
What's the lesson? That's up to you. You could be depressed thinking about the walls people build for themselves. Elated that you can do anything you choose. You could pity me for my weakness, or commiserate with me on my humanity. Maybe the ultimate point is that the Mill Valley Bike Path, like any path we ride along, is entirely a thing of our own making, and we create our own reality merely by thinking that it's so.
There is no end to any path except the one we make for ourselves.
And now I know how to bike to Larkspur. I wonder what's on the other side?
The Bay area is a bit of a paradise for cyclists. There are trails criss-crossing the entire state, but particularly in and around San Francisco and Marin county. I like to ride, but I haven't been riding as much lately for a variety of reasons. A few weeks ago, though, I did the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage, which was 130 miles through Marin. I think it rekindled a desire in me to go riding, and that desire caught a bit of wind on Tuesday. I was at work, and feeling cooped up. Without no particular plan in mind, I looked on the web for something to do. There was a movie coming up - a film I'd wanted to see, a biopic of Jane Goodall - in Larkspur. Larkspur was about 20 miles from where I was, and I'd ridden my bike to work. I checked the clock - I had just enough time. It was foolish, stupid even. I didn't have a working head lamp. I really needed to get some things done. If I just wanted to see the movie, I could drive. There was no reason to ride my bicycle over 20 miles of hills.
But that wasn't, actually, the scariest part.
There is a particular bike path in Mill Valley, a city about 15 miles north, called, appropriately, the Mill Valley Bike Path. It's a beautiful stretch of bike trail that goes along a marsh. At the southern end, it connects up to a great road through Sausalito, that then connects to roads leading to the Golden Gate bridge, and on into San Francisco. Riding that stretch and back happens to be about 20-25 miles from my first apartment I shared with my brother in the Marina. When I first moved to the city, it represented just about the right amount of time and energy. My first few trips were to Sausalito only, but I pushed myself to get to the end of that trail. My brother and I rode it many times.
At the end of the trail, there is a busy intersection. Don't ask me the names of the roads, I don't know, but both of them are at least 4 lanes. It's not immediately obvious where to go on a bicycle; it sort of seems to come to a logical stop in the middle of nowhere. So, when I got to that point, I would turn back. The first few times I did it, I thought that someday I might go past that point. But, as time went on, time constraints, luck, and maybe a bit of fear of the unknown meant that I never did. Time passed, months went by. I often thought of that stretch. Once, I even had a guide - my brother - take me past that spot and up into Larkspur. But we ended up on a road that I couldn't remember, and I couldn't recreate what he'd done. Another time, I pushed myself to take one of the scary busy roads. It was getting dark, and I was scared of getting lost, and I turned back almost right away.
3 years passed. Tuesday, I set out for Larkspur. I bought a headlamp in Mill Valley. Darkness started to approach and I got to the end of the trail. I looked around. I checked Google. Across the road I saw a sidewalk. I walked my bike across. I saw it turned into a bit of a path. I started down it.
45 minutes later, I was in Larkspur.
There is no end to the Mill Valley Bike Path! It was all in my head! The path is almost completely continuous! All you have to do is cross the street and poke your head behind a few trees, and there it is! More path! It's right there! Thousands, maybe millions, of people have undoubtedly ridden right past it without even a thought! But, to me, for 3 years it was an insurmountable obstacle, a huge barrier, a wall keeping me inside. Oh, I was happy, certainly: I love the ride up to Mill Valley. It is a nice, doable length and just the right amount of time on a bike. But - and this is a huge but - now I can stop because I choose to, knowing that there is more path right there if I ever want it.
What's the lesson? That's up to you. You could be depressed thinking about the walls people build for themselves. Elated that you can do anything you choose. You could pity me for my weakness, or commiserate with me on my humanity. Maybe the ultimate point is that the Mill Valley Bike Path, like any path we ride along, is entirely a thing of our own making, and we create our own reality merely by thinking that it's so.
There is no end to any path except the one we make for ourselves.
And now I know how to bike to Larkspur. I wonder what's on the other side?
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