Mount Washington, spells, cracks and crevices ...

Mount Washington in New Hampshire is my spiritual icon.

My first trip up the mountain was at the age of ten on a snowmobile behind my father. In the 60's this was a big deal. The Ski Doo was only 12 horsepower and my dad was no lightweight. 

I remember the beat up Half Way House just below tree line where we stopped to get warm. The rickety cabin had creepy dark corners, oil lamps, hot chocolate, a wood stove, and ragged old magazines.

As we continued above tree line the snow drifts had been tediously cut out by the Tucker Snow Cats throughout winters snow storms to get food and supplies to the brave souls who chose to live a mile above the rest of the world. 

There were over a dozen riders going up with one snowmobile's motor dying on the way. We all stopped to take pictures of the incredibly unique hundred mile view.

As we turned back to the sleds my dad had me stand next to the snow drift so he could take 8mm movies of me dwarfed by the ten foot cut of layers of winters white blankets. To this day I'm overwhelmed by the innocence I felt surrounded by the first taste of that mountains limitless power. I was just a little gee gaw girl patting the side of that tunnel in the snow smiling in my snow suit with my cute little knit hat, and mittens with clips on the sleeves, with no idea what winds it took to make those drifts so deep and solid.

At the top of the mountain we went into the The Summit House Hotel. 

It was weathered, all wood and windows, chained down to the ground, a huge dining room as you walked in, with the hottest soup and thickest sandwiches you could imagine. We sat at tables that had to be over a hundred years old. The hard wood floors were made from virgin timber cut from the mountain centuries ago. The mile highers said that day was so clear and sunny we were looking at Vermont, Maine, Canada, and the Atlantic Ocean almost 200 miles away. 

I didn't care I just wanted the brownies and milk.

We walked around the top of the mountain looking at hoar ice covered buildings, weather station, radio and television stations, and the military testing facility there because the highest recorded winds were 232 mph. 

We got back on the machines never giving it much thought that going over the edge of the slippery icy road meant a 1400 foot slide for life. Half way down we hooked onto that dead Ski Doo with a tow rope, and the lightest person steered it all the way down. I never had so much fun avoiding trees.

Since that day I've been on that mountain a gazillion times in just about all manner shape and form. To give a bit of context I'll give a list of the ways I've experienced this powerful mountain.

o In my rally car at 80mph with a 1400 foot drop on my right.

o In my rally car upside down rolling over at 60mph.

o Winning awards and setting records.

o In a Viper at 120 MPH with a flat tire and the co-driver saying "you know we have a flat" and me responding with "yeah but it's only a small hole" he responded "you're certifiable"

o In my soon to be partners Porsche 924 at moderate speed taking her for her first ride up the hill and smelling this incredibly strong odor of sex. Later to find out how HOT the fear of the ride made her.

o I've raced bicycles up the mountain. 

o I've done 24 hour mountain bike races on that mountain.

o Raced up it in the foot race.

o I've flown over the mountain doing loop du loops in a sail plane.

o I was married on top of the mountain.

o I've been sexual on the mountain. Kinky too.

All those experiences are fascinating. I can go on and on with lists of great and interesting stories. But the most important aspect of it is how insignificant I feel when I'm there. To look at that icon from any direction recognizing how large it is and how small I am reminds me how my world is small. When I sit on top of Mount Washington and look out for hundreds of miles around then I really understand that each aspect of my thoughts and feelings are not that important in the scope of the rest of the world. Sometimes I come home from the Mountain feeling calm and grounded, other times I'm more confused, but always I'm enlightened.

Surely I can feel like I mean so much to the way the world turns. That I affect others in a meaningful way. But the truth is I can only add a very small amount to anyone else's life. Frankly I can only add if they want it. I want to be helpful, it makes me feel fulfilled. I'm a giver who reaches out when sometimes others won't. Why? Because I can. How often has that hand and heart I'm extending been looked at with criticism and fear because it's unusual? More times than we all can imagine. It's difficult to trust what is unusual. Building trust takes a long time when we have so many years of life's training behind us and scars built up. Newborn kittens come quickly to food, feral cats will starve first.

I'm learning new lessons, perhaps from feeling insignificant on the mountain, or from my more significant moments recently. My mind is wanting answers like the sliding number puzzle we had as children or solving the colors on the sides of a rubiks cube.

Contrarily my heart sees life as filling a pink bazooka with brightly colored glitter, sparkles, pastels, and pixie dust, firing it into the sky and just enjoying the colors of the moment.

The conundrum is do we get what we want now and in the future, when we reach out and help someone such as the simple giving of a meal or two to the gentleman in Montreal that made me feel good because I just felt it was necessary. I had no agenda, no long term self serving reward. It just felt like it was something to be taken care of, a core level instinctual act of caring. The deeper question is when you intuitively are drawn to give to someone who you care for in a deeper manner how far do you go, and what do you want, now and in the future. Is it as simple as just core level instinctual caring of the moment with no agenda and expectations? Isn't the amount of heart you wish to share bigger and beyond the norm which warrants more to come back to you? Perhaps not.

When they respond surprisingly with an equal amount of caring, finding a spot within you that no one sees what do you do? This isn't in the rule book, no one said they can give back and care as much when I'm giving. It's like a kitten looking in a mirror for the first time, scaring itself and running. Can two givers, give and receive or will they run?

This is different. There is a unique balance here. There is a look in the eyes when they each know intuitively what to give but they know also the battle of receiving. It's delicate balance of equality, or is it? To much to think about.

Let me share a secret. Givers/listeners really want to receive too. But they don't trust at all. They say they do, but they don't very easily. They find it awkward to receive intimacy of touch, listening, caring, and love. That's the art they have spent a lifetime perfecting to do to others. The receivers never knew how to get inside the givers successfully, unfortunately, they were amateurs. The only ones who can truly get inside the others is another Pro-Giver. Interesting, how profound, equal-equal.

At best lately my mind has been a dervish. Me thinks my heart is right, demand no answers, no guessing of others. Enjoy the sparkling colors sprinkling down from the sky and watching the northern lights ignite in other peoples lives.

I walk my own path quietly. Simple.

________________________________________________________

I've been asked if I'll have my ashes dropped from a plane over Mountain Washington. I've responded with "No I'll probably die on Mount Washington one way or the other with all the risks I take up there. My ashes are destined to go to my friend Larry who owns a small soap making company. He's going to mix my ashes into a hundred bar batch of soap to be given out to my previous lovers as scented lava soap. You know the kind that has that little gritty feel for that extra special cleaning affect. I always wanted to be close to their bodies and get into their cracks and crevices after I'm gone."

Me thinks it's time I head back to the mountain for a bit of spiritual time, don't you think?

Ms. T.

Music-less for 25 years ..

What does she mean Musicless for 25 years????

I've literally gone for 25 years without listening to music. Sounds unbelievable doesn't it? (is there a pun there). I avoided music, resented it, and couldn't be bothered to understand why others enjoyed listening to artists play their songs. I'll share with you why I felt this way.

I've been an athlete all my life. Growing up in a skiing community here in northeastern USA I raced from an early age, eventually becoming a ski instructor after college. I also was a bicyclist who would do 100 mile rides just for training. Unfortunately 25 years ago I had a significant bicycle crash where I fractured my skull on the road. Back then there were no hard shelled helmets, just those silly little leather helmets which we never wore.

I was in a coma for quite a while until the doctors decided to use 'new' technology, a CAT scan, and found parts of my brain that needed surgery. They operated, I came out of the coma with some temporary paralysis, a plastic plate in my head, and permanently lost the hearing in my right ear. After two years of recovery I was fine except I still would never hear in my right ear.

I found I had difficulty hearing conversations with my left ear if there was background noise. I learned to avoid places where there was music playing. I also could not hear singers clearly because all the sounds would layer on top of each other. Literally I began to resent music, I would avoid it, and ask other people turn it off. Over the years my avoidance of music became a significant issue to the point of a quiet internal hatred.

This summer I was invited to a choral concert in Montreal, reluctantly I went to be polite considering I wouldn't have to talk much doing the concert. I sat next to a woman who was very much into the the music. As she listened I asked her to close her eyes and 'feel the music'. I watched her, and realized that she had cried during the song. I asked her afterwards what she felt. She said she couldn't explain it right then because there was too much to tell. That surprised me. Later she explained how music has a life, emotions, and feelings for her. It was the first time that I had ever thought of the concept. Please understand, music had been my enemy for all these years.

The next morning I was warming up on a bicycle turbo trainer for a bicycle race. A friend of mine walked up and said "Liz listen to this song" he put an iPod ear bud in my ear, first time that has happened. I heard the singers! Within thirty seconds I was in tears, the song was beautiful, and I could actually hear the singers and the instruments clearly! I didn't give the iPod back for half an hour, I kept playing that song over and over and over.

Later on in the week I asked the woman if she would share her music with me. She gave me her Jeff Buckley - Grace cd to take home with me. She said listen to songs 3, 4, and 6. Our Last Good-bye, Lilac Wine, and Hallelujah. When I listened to them in the car, I cried. I have listened to those songs over and over again.

I started to ask people what their favorite songs were. What I've found is music is universal. Everyone loves some music. They don't all like the same music but they like some music. If you ask anyone what their favorite music is they all will have some songs to tell about. Even the grumpy old man at the gas station will smile and tell of his favorites. I've found a universal ice breaker. When they ask what I like I tell them I have twenty five years of void to fill and I can honestly say I have no idea.

After coming home I decided to order an iPod for my birthday. My mom even contributed to the purchase, bless her heart. [She was by my hospital bed through the whole ordeal and prompted the doctors to do the CAT scan.] I take the iPod with me everywhere, even on my bike rides. I have an old stereo that I dragged out of the barn. It's not the best, but it kind of works. I plug it into the computer and use the ear bud or a head set with it. I've bought CD's, downloaded music, borrowed and copied music, and found people are more than willing to share their music. It's an amazing new world to me.

I find people love to talk about music, their favorite musicians, songs, instruments, or concerts. I have friends who are musicians and music teachers, who are teaching me about music. I'm listening to music that was popular when I was growing up in the sixties and seventies and everything in between then and now. I'm even listening to music from before I was born.

I listen to every type of music that I can find. When someone posts their favorite lyrics or CD here on b.com I race to find the songs on the web to listen to. I've become greedy to make up for the twenty-five years.

I now hear the singers through that little ear bud. I can feel the emotions, I cry, I smile, I see the world created by the songs. I have become aware of the different instruments in the background, the highs of a trumpet, the lows of a bass, the beat of a drum, the swoosh of a cymbal, I listen now. I am starting to recognize singers voices that I like more than others, who smokes and who doesn't, who hits the highs more, what lyrics are fun, which ones are sad, which writers touch me in the heart. I recognize the beats, the rhythm, the dancing music, I even understand a bit about the genre's. But I'm still learning and getting 'help from my friends'. It's all good.

I am so thankful for everyone sharing about their music. I am also so thankful that after 25 years I "feel the music too".

Liz

Those moments in life that stay with you ...

On the way to Montreal for the Out Games I called my friend who lives less than two hours away from there to invite her to the opening ceremonies. I knew the entire week was going to be filled with an incredible number of moving moments. How could it not be when 40,000 plus gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender people from all over the world gather in one place for a week of Olympic style athletic competition, professional level artistic performances, and heavy duty partying, in one of the most beautiful cities of North America. I had decided to attend at the last minute. I hadn't made hotel reservations, and here I was driving across the border. My ace in the hole was a friend from Chicago, who was the only person I knew who would be at the Out Games, might know of a place to stay. I call his cell phone only to catch him walking by the desk of the McGill University dormitory desk where he is staying, they have an extra room in the basement next to his, cheap, I'm in! I arrive at check in for the games four hours before the opening ceremonies which goes smoothly and quickly. The dorms are fine, friendly, clean, and quiet. I unpack two road bikes, a mountain bike, clothes, and stuff, settle in and still have time to spare. My friend arrives on time and with a smile. She's been to Montreal a few times with not so great experiences. Off to the Olympic Stadium via the very clean and convenient subway which is free to all the OutGames guests. After an hour of organizing outside the Stadium, home of the 1976 Olympics, we enter into an incredible giant womb of loud music, screaming people, waving athletes ahead, flashing laser light show, and the beginning of and incredible week. We're here, we're queer, and we're ready to play! The ceremony was more of a celebration than a formality. The variety of speeches were enthusiastic and brief, music was accented by Cirque du Soleil, the partying has begun. We watched, listened, enjoyed, participated, danced, and left for the next part of the journey: The Village - Saint Catherine Street, with block after block closed to traffic. Hundreds and hundreds of people walking from one end of St. Catherines to the other, every cafe and bar filled along the way. It was midnight or so before we headed back to the dorm, eventually ending up sharing a single bed like two freshmen after meeting at their first keg party. I woke up to my cell phone ringing to hear, "Liz, I'm down in The Village having breakfast at Expresso Net and checking my email". I respond that I'll be down by bicycle in a while. After getting my world together, stopping at the desk, meeting a few people, talking too much, I'm on the bicycle riding down, actually coasting down at walking pace with someone I met in the dorm. I find her, we sit on the edge of the sidewalk leaning against a building. She's saved a beautiful piece of wide fresh bread thickly spread with herb butter, and a salad, for me. We sit and talk for a while, I'm not yet hungry for food, but am for conversation, comfort with my surroundings, and people observing. The 'highway traffic' of thousands of Out Gamers going back and forth is perpetual. Fascinating to watch the variety of tell tale personalities exhibited via shirts, shorts, hats, and spirit. The Germans stand out from the Americans, who do not look like the Spaniards, nor the Japanese, or the South Africans. All are wearing the tell tale Out Games badges proudly, myself as well. We're here, we're proud, we're ready, we live, we stand, we are not in the closet. You could almost tell the soccer players from the swimmers, or the softball teams from the tennis players, each had an identifying 'tag' in the type of clothing or hat or shoe. Typically there would be something. I was sitting on the sideline getting comfortable with my surroundings, watching the people, the ones moving, and the ones not. To my left a presumed homeless man standing taking in all that was going on around him. He was a bit fascinated as well. But his mind was not as distracted with the people as mine. In front of me a woman knelt in front of a bench talking to or should I say listening to a man in his sixties who had been sleeping. She was petite and pretty, being helpful, and I thought a social worker of some sort, but on a Sunday? He was talking and talking, she was listening and talking. I watched the 'traffic', talked to my friend about her morning, took a bite of the incredibly tasteful large piece of bread with the lovely rich flavored butter, followed the eye of the distracted man to my bread. "Would you care for this" I asked. As I lifted the bread up to him. His eyes never left the bread, he moved without thinking and said yes, and thank you and continued past me to the curb. He stopped, to truly enjoy bite for bite perhaps the first meal in a bit. I asked my friend if she was upset by that, she hesitated and replied "no Liz, I'm glad you got at least one bite of that wonderful butter." I finished the remnants of her tasteless salad, it was enough for me. The 'social worker' was gone, the prone man was standing, but completely hunched over. His back was curved to the point that he could not look up. He had once been 5'10" minimum but now couldn't be any taller than 4'. He was next to us about to sit. He leaned down further picking up paper and trash from the previous night 'games' partying, walking to the barrel to toss it out. Intuitively, I stand, walk over and have put enough American money in his hand to feed him a meal. With one hand gently on his back, he looks over not able to look me in the eye, he starts to tell me his story and say thank you. I try to bend down further to face him, uncomfortably, I'm using my hand on his back to keep myself steady. For ten minutes or more we talk. He was originally from Lebanon, a businessman, he was wealthy when he came here 25 years ago, he drove to Boston in a Cadillac, he did this, he did that, god loves me, I listened. He asked what he could do for me. He told me he could get me food at all the best restaurants. I know he could. I told him I didn't need anything. I told him that I did not do this because I felt sorry for him. I did this because I could and because he would have done the same for me. In the first 24 hours of being in Montreal I went to an incredible opening ceremony had a wonderful time with great people. I can't recall much of the music or the speeches, but I can recall every second of the 15 minutes sitting with my friend watching the 'traffic' and every word of my conversation with the gentleman from Lebanon. That was a moment that will stay in my life forever. ___________________________________________ [ The thought arises about where the money will go, towards beer, a bottle, or food. Frankly it's not my nature to judge how anyone gets through the day. Each of us will do whatever we have to get to the next day, it could be a drink, drugs, food, hours online, frivolous luxury things, or savings. Whatever it takes is what it takes. To each their own. ]

A spiritual ride ...

Last night I had one of the most interesting and
perhaps spiritual rides I've had in a while. This
summer marks my 25th year of actively riding bicycles.
Over the years I've taken in a lot of people to teach
to ride and coach as 'bicyclists' up to full out
'racers'.

The two women I rode with are both under my wing as
serious riders. Interestingly at the beginning of the
season as friends they came to me each with
addictions. One's alcoholism had taken over again in a
fury. The other had taken up smoking once more over
the winter. The side story is they both had recently
ended relationships with their ex-husbands/boyfriends
and faced the fact they were closeted lesbians who
were ready to explore their first relationship.

They each sought me out separately this spring to train them to
ride. What I found is they also needed someone to
listen. After a bit of soul searching, deep digging,
and friendly advice, one went into treatment, the other
moved in here for three weeks while starting out
on the patch. She also asked to give up complete
control to me in order to giveup the smoking.
I knew she needed to be distracted
while she got past the hump.

I gave her a huge distraction. This house had the
best spring cleaning it has ever had. The first came
out of treatment sober, the second moved back home. I
suggested they get together for rides and kayaking.
Soon after that I was on the road racing,
traveling, and dealing with my work.

Tonight was the first time I've seen them in 8 weeks.
I checked in about the smoking and drinking, all was
good. But there was something else in the air.

Now let me tell you about the 3 hour ride. We started
out around 6:30 leaving Rutland to head south and up
into the hills of Tinmouth, 7 miles of climbing
pavement and dirt. I knew it was going to be a
Liz-venture ride because we'd be riding home in the
dark. We typically have flashing lights on the back.

There is a point after an hour or so of riding where
the body's endorphins kick in to create a bit of a
meditative high. Topping that off while we were riding
these road bikes up a long tree lined dirt road two
beautiful deer ran across in front of us, a third ran
along side of us. We climbed a stretch which opened
suddenly up into a 50 mile view of Tinmouth Valley,
Danby Mountain, Dorset Mountain and Stratton in the
distance, just as the sun was setting.

We kept climbing and climbing up more dirt roads. At
the peak of the climbs the sun had set, the light was
diminished, we put on vests and sleeves, turned the
bikes downhill, letting loose. The first downhill
section was completely canopied and dark. The woman in
the back said watching the flashing lights floating
ahead of her in complete darkness at speed was like
being on a wild 'trip'.

There was one mile long climb between there and the 14
miles we had left to ride to get home. While two of us
were side by side intuitively I asked, "so tell me
about the two of you hooking up?" The giggles started
and all she said was "Thank you Liz for putting the
two of us together."

I had a hope for them both the first time I suggested
the smoker call the drinker to talk. Though they were
strangers to each other, I knew they could relate and
be supportive on so many levels. Later on the ride when
I asked the shy one, "tell me about you both being together"
she stuttered and stammered, but said "Liz you are incredibly
special to us both."

The rest of the ride was in the dark, no headlights.
I've often been asked what bicycle riding is all about
to me. I explain the connection I feel with the bike.
There is a point where the bicycle is a part of me. I
know when a muscle is sore, hear a gear skipping, sense a
soft tire, and feel the road through my bottom, hands and feet.

Last night without the aid of headlights, the three of
us were riding our way home through the feel of the
bikes. We rode as fast on the way back, blind, as we
had earlier on the way out. We were within inches of
each other totally trusting the other and letting our
bodies meld into the bikes and sense the road to get
us home safely.

A spiritual ride ...