You scared me.
The kind of scared you get when flying down a mountain road at 45 mph on a road bike. Rushing gravity, panting for air, praying your skin never meets the pavement, and trusting your bike. Trying to trust your gut and your heart.
90% of my brain always screams in ecstasy, “Hell yes!” but there a smaller voice in the back of my head that nudges me to slow down and pump the brakes for fear of a fall that would be devastating–so much so that I may not get back up.
But I never brake unless there’s a turn ahead, and I didn’t perceive one coming. But perception is a funny thing that way; sometimes you don’t see it until it actually happens.
There is one, a bumpy turn in the road, and my over confidence gets the best of me. I crash, it burns, but I get back up. I HAVE to get back up. Laying there and wallowing is not an option.
I should have listened to that 10% that whispered warnings in my ear.
And like a wounded dog, I scamper away into hiding and I seek the solitude of my enchanted redwood forest. The energies of generations past surrounding my shrouded heart with a warm embrace, mending my wounds, and providing me with the hope to carry on.