A False Sense of Mojo and the Bicycle Ballet

Mojo: noun: a magic charm, talisman, or spell; magic power

This morning, I watched part of a video of a man doing impressive stunts on a bicycle. He crawled very Spider-man-like along a wall while still walking his bike beside him, he stood on the handles, he landed amazing jumps. He did all this while the bike never lost forward momentum. It reminded me of myself as a child. Not because I could do any of those things. I am not, in any way, an athlete. Not at all. It reminded me, though, of my afternoons spent wheeling down the bike paths performing bicycle ballet.

My brand of bicycle ballet, if there is any brand of bicycle ballet, consists of me gliding slowly along the tarmac, standing on the pedals, and then extending one leg out very gracefully and pointing my toe until I had to start pedaling again. I would repeat this motion over and over pretending I was in some sort of recital, listening to the music in my head. I believed at the time that passersby noted my grace and agility, that they could see my swanlike beauty, that perhaps they were impressed. I was, though shy and gangly and, as I said, not an athlete, some sort of bicycle beauty star. You should’ve seen me on ice skates!

Of course, extending one leg while on a bicycle is no impressive feat. Neither is skating in a small circle on the ice rink. Neither, probably, are any of the little show girl “stunts” I thought I was doing as a child. But, give me a break folks, I just wanted to be beautiful! I wanted to be noticed.

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The Christmas Chief on Writing and Momdom and Mortality and Magic

I was talking to a friend the other day about my writing. I had taken a writing class that was a bit of a drag, but affirmed for me that I both have stories to tell and raw, perhaps somewhat polished, talent. I didn’t need to shell out $300+ (some gifted to me by supportive friends) to be told those seeming truths. However, the class reiterated for me that I need to be writing. I need to be telling my stories. I need to continue to put one literary foot in front of the other. It is my greatest desire to use my gifts in some larger capacity.

When I expressed the frustration I felt about struggling to find the time to write, my friend suggested that perhaps I could hold off a bit, perhaps I could wait until my son was older, out of the house even. My first thought, and I erred on side of tact and didn’t vocalize it, was “Yeah, if I don’t die first.”

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