Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
By Karen FitzGerald
What brings me joy?
Riding my bike brings me joy.
The wind in my face on a warm day, sailing through traffic jams piled up at those long, stop lighted intersections like Farmer’s Lane and Highway 12.
I love it.
I always feel child-like when I’m riding my bike.
Recently, I’ve taken to singing while I cruise. Not too loud, but loud enough to feel the vibration of my voice ripple through my body, from throat to sternum to stomach and right on down my legs to my ankles as I pump my way up the Chanate hill.
I especially love going off trail. That is, I am not a mountain biker. Oh no. Too hard on the back.
In fact, any more I’m thinking mountain biking people are not fundamentally joyful people. They are like as bumpy and unpredictable as the trails they navigate. Nope.
Give me a long shot on a nice, gentle ocean-side stretch where cows graze on green velvet hills to my right, and the ocean’s horizon beckons to me on my left.
Oh gosh – this is more than joy-provocative. This puts me in a frame of mind and feeling that might be understood as spiritual: me, pedaling along on a quiet, deserted west side road flanked by grass-tufted sand dunes, the smell of tide on the ebb, and a never-ending, razor-sharp horizon stretching north to south; and there, flanking my eastern side—rock outcroppings peppering hills being kissed by cobalt blue skies.
Such a ride brings me inexplicable joy, a feeling of wordless, radical awe – enduring awe—until I come across the inevitable roadkill.
Karen FitzGerald is a genre fluid writer, known by some as an “emerging writer.”
She has been emerging for 50 years.
Karen’s major works can be found in slush piles all across America.