I’m groggy and out of sorts this morning. First day back to work, a lot to catch up on, short week. I’m not eager to get on with all of that.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

I started down the trail in darkness, a nearly full moon peeking from the clouds now and then. It is a little chillier than it has been, and drifts of fallen leaves have begun to pile up in spots. Definitely autumn, now. I’m grateful for the choice of cozy sweater and a warm fleece.

One step after another, I made my way down the trail in the dark. It feels so easy some mornings. This morning, walking this trail feels easier than returning to work, but it is less than ideally easy, generally. I take it one step at a time. I remind myself to be grateful that I walk at all ( I refuse to allow pain or discomfort to be the whole experience). I keep walking. One step at a time.

… Progress feels slow today. I keep going, anyway…

Eventually, I reach my halfway point on this morning’s walk. I stop. I sit for a little while, just listening, and breathing, and sensing the world around me. I meditate, quietly, here in the darkness. Daybreak is still an hour away (maybe more). I breathe, exhale, and relax. I observe the painful left ankle. I wonder, again, what the hell is up with this right knee? My left shoulder feels like someone tried to pull my arm off with a twisting motion. It is sore and uncomfortable. Neck. Back. The weird shooting pain that runs from my hip down my leg and disappearing before it reaches my knee. The headache? Not a concern, yet, which is quite nice, so I focus on that awhile, until I am distracted by my tinnitus. None of this feels at all “unusual”; this is simply part of my experience.

…Pain and pain management are ordinary details in a lot of lives, not just mine (not just yours). Be kind to people; you don’t know what they’re going through.

Work? Right. There’s that, too. Fuck. I yawn, then break out in a fit of sneezing. I’m grateful for the packet of tissues in my pocket. Handy. I sigh to myself, acknowledging how little enthusiasm for the day ahead I really have. I’d rather go back to sleep. That’s not an available option, today.

I get to my feet slowly, with care. The trailhead feels far, this morning. Another sigh. I’m being ridiculous; it is the same distance it always is, and the pain I’m in is also pretty typical. I stretch and look down the path. The first hints of the sky beginning to lighten slowly appear. The night sky is now more of a deep charcoal hue, not truly darkness. I hear that clock ticking in the background. It’s time to begin, again.