What does GOOD WRITING do for us?
I think the most important thing a piece of writing
can do is move the reader into another place in their own mind. A visually impaired writer friend did this for me today. I read his latest essay. He wrote an article on "driving" for his blog. My mind moved through his words, and into my own
place and time. Isn't that what GOOD WRITING should do for us?
His words made me think of my own loss of driving.
I have to say, driving is the thing I miss very much. Driving is a physical
act, in itself. I miss the physicality of operating my hot little Z-car and the
feeling of freedom I experienced. I drove wherever I wanted to go. Driving
enabled me to get myself to airports so I could take off for trips to Europe
every summer. I felt freedom when I arrived there by myself - I loved driving to
the airport, leaving my car in the long-term parking lot, and getting on board
for a long flight.
Some days, I just took the top out of my car, and
drove for a few hours, just to feel the breeze in my hair, the music surrounded
me, and I was one with the road beneath us. Driving is a dance in time and
space; it is pure enchantment.
The driving I miss most of all is the dance
I enjoyed every time I rode my motorcycle. At time we screamed down the
highway surrounded by traffic. Summer days, we maneuvered on the rough and
winding rural roads with other friends on bikes. I met the challenges of the
switchbacks. I drove into sharp hairpin curves and down into the western
Pennsylvania gorges; we climbed together up the steep thrusting curved
roads. My eyes focused ahead for the upcoming curves and watched for oncoming
traffic. The concentration required to do the rain slicked mountain roads made
my hands sweat with pleasure inside the fingerless leather driving gloves. Each
new turn captured my full attention. I was in the moment and time seemed to
stand still.
My bike is the "Blue Dragon."
She sets these
days in my garage, covered up, and alone. My husband takes her out just to
exercise her parts, but just for short rides around town. My Blue Dragon has the
most fantastic paintings all over her that anyone could dream up. Wherever we
went together, people would stop what they were doing to come and have a look,
and smile.
When a person rides a bike that they love, it's a
feeling of personal freedom. One afternoon, I rode the "Blue Dragon" through
Amish country. I was alone, dressed in black leathers. I passed the little
country school house at a time when the children were outside playing. It was
a sunny day in the autumn, and the entire landscape was ablaze with vivid
colors. The teacher watched me passing by the school yard. Then, the unexpected
happened as she raised her arm to give me a wave. I can still see her broad
smile, in my memory. I raised my arm to her in response, and we smiled at each
other briefly as I passed by. It was a special moment, when two sisters
recognized each other. For that moment, we were one with the
universe.
Just for fun, at night, I often did something
surprising when I sat at a red light in traffic. I threw a switch and the
Blue Dragon suddenly lit up the road beneath us with the bright green neon
lights. The switch was located just underneath my seat. The brilliant lights
were a surprise, and children shouted with happiness, laughed and pointed to
me. They waved to me, as their parents laughed and nodded with approval at my
little light show on the pavement. The traffic light changed and Blue Dragon's
neon lights were switched off. I clutched the bike and kicked her into first
gear; we drove into the darkness.
Occasionally, I still walk out to the garage and
put my right leg up over her seat and place my two feet firmly on the concrete
floor. I shift her weight with my hands on her handlebars and I give a quick
upwards tug to balance her on two wheels. She feels weightless.
The long black leather solo seat holds my body
erect and provides just the right amount of tension for the weight to be
balanced. I sit there, and I hold onto the handlebars with my arms extended. I
pull her clutch in towards the palm of my left hand. With the toe of my left
foot, I thrust it upwards, kick her into gear. For a moment, we are about to
leave for a drive once again. Only for a moment.
What do I miss the most about being visually
impaired?
I miss my time on the dance floor with my Blue Dragon!
