life is full of chances

Why did I buy a motorcycle? I never intended to. I thought I just wanted to learn how to ride (collect-a-skill, you know) and the next thing I knew I was riding to and from work and making weekend forays into scenic Ohio. Frances and I had a great summer.

When people find out that I ride a motorcycle, most take it as a cue to make some sort of comment on my character - I am brave or stupid, tough or reckless, interesting or childish. I can't really argue with any of these assessments because I am probably a little bit of all of those things. But I'd like to address them anyway, because time spent on the bike, without the radio, phone, and "frames" to distract me, is time spent in direct contact with the world and my own thoughts; it's the perfect place to expand one's philosophy of life*.

People say that riding is dangerous. A motorcycle has no frame or roof. It is balanced precariously on two wheels, and is more precarious in the case of precipitation. It has no seat belt. It has no airbags. When I climb onto my bike and take off, there is nothing but me, whatever gear I choose to wear, and the road, and then I travel at roughly 55mph, taking turns and dodging potholes, and being passed by vehicles that weigh five or ten times what Frances and I do.

I suppose you could call that dangerous.

I think this is an opportune moment for me to comment on the fact that motorcycles aren't the only dangerous way to travel. When you're driving down the road in fair weather I doubt that you think very much about it, but what exactly would you call "safe" about traveling at 80mph? Even if you are absolutely certain that you will do everything right, can you say that about the people around you? In fact, now that Pennsylvania is getting back to cold mornings and weather advisories this may be the perfect time to mention that weather alone has the ability to put our best intentions on their butts in the snow.

On a related note, at Christmas my family was talking about travel and the problems that it could create for your health insurance. "Are you sure that your health insurance will mean something in London? You make a mistake, step off a sidewalk wrong, eat the wrong food, and you could be in serious trouble." That sort of thing. In the middle of the conversation I found myself wondering how it came to be that risk elimination became the name of the game. Isn't life really about risk? Should you really not take a chance, or a trip, because all of the angles might not be covered?

I'm not saying is that riding a motorcycle isn't dangerous, I'm saying I could argue that driving a car is just as dangerous. I'm not saying don't think about the insurance, but should insurance really be the thing you think about first? If you believe in a God whose care for his creation is providential and omnipotent, do you really think that the presence or absence of airbags (literal or metaphorical) are going to make that much of a difference?

Life may be dangerous, but God is good. What do I have to fear?

I don't want to convince the world to drive recklessly, drop their insurance, or buy motorcycles. But here are some things I wish I could explain to the people who call me stupid, reckless and childish: The smell of the air when twilight touches the hills. The temperature drop that tells you there is water nearby. The soaring feeling in your soul when you drive over the crest of a hill or lean perfectly into a turn. My motorcycle is a practice of freedom and joy, not rebellion.

If you look at the world fearfully, it will seem filled with danger. You'll build up walls to insulate you from relationships, weather, experience, from all of the things that seem to make life dangerous. But if it's ultimately God's world... you can forget the danger and burn the insulation. Danger is opportunity in disguise, and life is full of chances that you never saw before.

And I think that's why I bought a motorcycle.

*case in point

auld lang syne

It seems to me that we pay a lot of attention to the passage of time: years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes. They're all measured and counted, recorded in our planners, wall calendars, photographs and timelines. Sometimes we have parties for them, like birthdays and holidays.

For thirteen years now I have spent New Year's Eve with my family and our neighbors - we play board games, we play pranks, we eat seafood, and we gather around the television to watch the ball drop at Times Square. On the one hand, it's a night like any other because we are simply enjoying each other's company and renewing relationships that might have been strained by distance and time (especially for those of us in school). On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if it's something more. Or if it should be.

I don't know about you, but sometimes I have to wonder what it all means. What is the significance of a day passing, or a month? Or even a year - why does it matter that I know how many years I've been alive? Once upon a time I'm sure that it did, when months meant planting and harvesting, and each year passed was an achievement, something to be grateful for. But what does it mean now?

It has been my tradition to spend a significant portion of the week following Christmas journaling. It's not my normal style of journaling, where I wax philosophical and pretend that my stories are funny (you thought I only did that online, didn't you?). No, that week is about looking forwards and backwards, as if the stroke of midnight on the 31st is a street about to be crossed, and crossed safely.

Perhaps it is. You probably know the song Auld Lang Syne, which was written by Robert Burns in 1788. The song has a nostalgic quality that, for me, puts it up there with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas when I want to be melancholy about the holidays. Both songs are about remembering what came before - the joy and the pain and the years gone by.

It wasn't until this year that I realized that Auld Lang Syne is about more than remembrance; in its solemn Scottish way, it is about hope for and confidence in the future. What I always imagined were statements: "If old acquaintances are forgot..." are actually questions: "Should old acquaintance be forgot?" It is a small difference, but it means everything to me, because the answer to the question is and should always be a resounding "No."

To answer that question of significance, I hope that I will learn to mark the passing of a year with solemnity and contentment, gratitude that recognizes that these days are gifts. I hope that I will not celebrate by force of habit, but because of real joy. I don't know about other holidays, but I hope that my new years are more like the questions in this song - times of remembrance, but also of making new memories. Who will I be in the year ahead? How can I honor the memory of those who were with us in the past? I want to learn to cross the street well.