My own miracle

Waiting to see if any of the sperms decided to linger on and meet up with an egg, is like an old dry habit now. I think the dryness of the habit could actually translate into my own personal hopelessness about the possibility of this baby-making ever really happening at all. My waiting period has been consumed by a sort of dark void. I really just have not been thinking about it much.

Mostly, I’ve been glum and disenchanted. I like to slink back into this rubbery shell that is not very protective and moan in my own head about the futility of all of this stuff we do called living.

And then I get gentle, life affirming bumps out of it. Yes,Dr. Kingdid fight hard for something better; he even was killed for his revolutionary ideas and yes those ideas got more and more revolutionary as he got older…and that is something to hold on to hope about, cause so many people seem to fizzle on their revolutionary thinking as they get older and more ingrained into this messy system of profit and production over everything meaningful and right and life-giving.

And I also get bumped out of the glum by little, mundane miracles. Yesterday, I had a hell of a ride to work. My back tire blew on Wednesday (I, sans tool kit, was left walking all over ann arbor for a tire and tube and wrench). Thursday morning after much fussing with my new tire, I still could not get it to stop rubbing my fenders so I took it up the road to the bike shop and a nice fellow raised my fenders and trued some of my spokes and made it spin without rubbing. Then I took off for work on my trusty, freshly tired vehicle only to have my front tire blow half way through the Park. I, sans tool kit, was left walking through the park on a beautiful, sunny day towards another bicycle shop tire in hand when I heard my friend tc yell out my name. He was riding through the park and happened upon me and he was with tool kit, tube, and hand pump (he even had an air kiss).

TC’s timely appearance was my own private miracle for the day (for the week, for the year). We fixed up the front tire; pumped it full of air and rode together the rest of the way to my work.

Reflection on the sun’s heat falling on my face, sailing through the spring air on my bicycle, the appearance of a friend in a time of need, and the day of remembering a great fighter for justice all work like sweet healing balms on the glumness that I like to let crust over my skin and heart.