Riding a motorcycle is a kind of fierce vulnerability. Every time I get on the bike, or pass one of those highway signs that says “Click it or ticket,” I remember. There is no seat belt on a motorcycle. There is no neck support. No one’s got your back.
Without the protection of a car, I’m totally putting myself out there. At 75 miles per hour, it’s just me and horsepower and tires and pavement. I’m vulnerable to the weather, to the circumstances, to other people’s actions, to my own state of mind.
I got delicious new shoes – burnt orange 4” heels – and wore them to a meeting this week. They feel very different from my steel-toed riding boots. I displayed them with delight to the people gathered there – my first foray into fancy colored shoes. Without the protection of jaded attitude, pretending to be o-so-professional, I’m totally putting myself out there. Utterly vulnerable to the pavement, to other people’s reactions to my delight, to my own state of balance.
Where does vulnerability help you stay real?