Riding the Wave

(Daniel)

Two fellow cyclists we met a few days ago warned us to expect a lot of ups and downs between here and Kentucky, because along the TransAm Trail, "Virginia is the hilliest state of all." "Once past the Appalachians," they said, "you're golden."

A quick glance at our elevation map of southern Missouri, of course, erases any glint of hope the two girls might have instilled in us (the Ozarks are described as one long, exhausting roller coaster ride), yet regardless, they had one thing right: Virginia is hilly.

As we've trekked over those hills, however, a curious thing has happened: whereas at one point--as anyone who's ever ridden a bicycle can attest--the free fall of riding down a steep slope may have been accompanied by a jolly, gleeful feeling (and maybe, if steep enough, even a rush of adrenaline!), those states of exhilaration, over the past few days, have been slowly supplanted by feelings of dread each time we see our path sloping downward, for we know what lies ahead: a sweaty, exhausting ascent.

"What goes down, must come up," has been our unwelcome but reoccurring theme so far, and the natural contours of the earth have begun to play with my mind; I can't enjoy the ease and smooth-sailing of traveling downhill anymore, for any enjoyment is overshadowed by that fear of the next grueling stretch beyond. Instead, I groan to myself each time I anticipate in angst those abysmal curves...

At Graceland this past semester, the theatre department put on the play "The Exit Interview," a contemporary and deeply philosophical sketch with a satirical feel and significant modern relevance. At the end of the performance, the main character is confronted by a gunman who confesses that her violent actions (a school shooting resulting in at least 4 deaths) are the consequence of her depressed mood. She states that her doctor had prescribed her medicine for what seems to be a diagnosis of extreme Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), where gloomy weather and rain--a motif throughout the play--routinely darken her perspective on humanity.

Despite his best attempts, the main character is unable to talk the woman out of her violent depression, and she lifts the gun to shoot him dead. Yet right before she pulls the trigger, a cellphone rings, with a text message signed curiously as "God". The hero, seizing the opportunity to distract the gunman, hands over the phone...

"God, is that you?" the woman writes back tentatively.

"Yes," the phone reads.

"God, it's raining, and I'm very sad. I don't know what to do anymore. I can't handle it! Won't it ever stop raining?!"

[Pause]

"Yes, it will stop raining," God assures her.

"Tomorrow?" the antagonist pleas.

           "...No, not tomorrow. :( " 

"The day after that?!"

          "Yes, the day after that. :) "

[Pause]

"And the day after that God?"

         "Sunny again. :) "

"And what about the day after that God, what then?"

         "Rainy. :( "

"But God! That depresses me...."

To which God replies: "So?"

That scene of the play was my favorite and perhaps the most emotional segment of the whole show, as it so beautifully and simply portrayed exactly what these Virginia hills have been reminding me these past few days:

Life, friends, is one long wave of ups and downs.

You may try to hold onto those euphoric moments that flitter fleetingly into your life. You may scream or curse the misfortunes that come your way. But, eventually, you know what? Life moves on, and counter-balance is inevitable. 

I became close friends last year with a kid who, although not yet diagnosed (he refuses to see a doctor about it, for fear of the answer), exhibits all the signs of manic-depressive bipolar disorder. His waves of emotional extremities come in short bursts; his highs ranging between 4-5 days to maybe a week or even two. During this time, the guy was unstoppable: his energy could last for hours on end, and his intellectual acuity and speed was delightfully, scarily, fast. In these periods, my friend could crank out flawless 6-page papers under an hour in one sudden, ceaseless stream of consciousness--and his thoughts were brilliant. But when my friend was down--he was out of commission. Little, seemingly inconsequential events that, in his best of moments would go ignored entirely, would send him careening over the edge and leave him shattered and isolated for hours, if not days, in furious anguish.

I recently found out, from my friend, that I am, of Lee's 6 Love Styles, a "Manic" lover: obsessive and jealous, but capable of feeling emotional highs and lows so great that they overwhelm even my (otherwise frustratingly rational) mind. My friend assured me that being a manic, although certainly at times discouraging and even prohibitive, was ultimately a gift. He thinks that (like him), emotional extremes help not just in managing and founding sound perspective, they help you connect with a wider range of others and--most importantly--drive forward the accumulation of wisdom, since new thoughts and ideas always accompany out of ordinary experiences. He may be right. I believe that those moments which define us most--indeed create us--are none other than those which imprint themselves into our being during our most intense of ups and downs. 

It occurs to me that too many of us, the creatures of comfort we are, actively avoid the highs and lows of human emotion for fear of the possible descent for which they may result--the vulnerability, say, of letting down our barriers; the grief and sorrow of losing a loved one to circumstances beyond our control. In much the same way I have learned not to enjoy the free-falls of the backside of the mountain, we human beings lose sight of the moment for fear of their unknown consequence. Instead of allowing ourselves the breadth of experience--the extreme joys as well as the extreme pains--we save ourselves from such possibilities by choosing, instead, the flat, uniform terrain of traditional, "safe" living. 

Yet what is life, if not the acquisition of experience?

As I look toward the miles ahead of us, and the many, unpredictable climbs I've yet to muscle through, my hope is that, at the height of each crest... as I've pedaled up and finally reached the summit...I not only begin to treat the descent as a reward, even a gift, for my hard work, but that I also take a moment to capture the beauty of the climb--for the two are intrinsically, forever intertwined.