In April I bought a motorcycle.  It was in a neighbor’s garage and while it made its way to my awareness in what seemed to be a predestined series of events, I’m sure I probably would have pounced on anything with a motor and two wheels.  I was decided.   It’s old and slow and beautiful and finicky and I ride it down the road along the shore while glancing for seals on the rocks.  Every time I get on it I think “don’t die, Lola”.

I notice things more without steel or glass protecting me.  Rocks, squirrels, porcupines, the smell of manure in the dairy farmer’s field. People stop and wave at me.  I cruise by with a friendly look on my face that I hope reads “I’d wave but I’m trying not to die” and then I excelerate because that’s what motorbikes are supposed to do, right?  Isnt the throttle connected by a golden thread to my gumption, my courage and audacity? “I’m brave, I’m brave, I’m brave”.

I am.

Eighteen months ago I wasn’t brave.  I broke.  Severe Agitated Depression.  I wanted to die.

Now I try not to.  Thank you Motorcycle for reminding me of that.

Mostly film from 2018