Archives for category: forgiveness

I woke from a deep sound sleep, surprised that it was “already” morning. The lights in the room had reached full brightness before my alarm woke me. This surprises me, but does not cause any anxiety; even waking with my alarm does not create any condition of “lateness”, it’s simply unusual for me to sleep to that point without waking on my own to some sound or perception of movement in the house (that may or may not be real). I get up, dress, and move through my morning routine until my feet carry me across the threshold of the front door, and out into the world. Hopefully, I managed not to wake anyone, but my Traveling Partner is a relatively light sleeper, and it is often the case that my departure (or some noise as I was dressing) will wake him, if not for the day for some little while. (I hope he slept; he needs the rest.)

I made the drive to the co-work space, as much for the time spent in thought as for any characteristic of being in an office. I’d happily work from home every day (and I’m set up for it, and have a job that expects it), but circumstances being what they are, and faced with the demands of basic consideration, and also just not liking having to “deal with people” first thing after I wake… it’s just easier to go somewhere else for a few hours, if not for the entire day, at least for the morning portion of it. I do everything I can to create some solitary time for myself to properly wake up, drink some coffee, and sort myself out before I interact with other people. I do everything I can to give my Traveling Partner that same opportunity. I consider it a matter of courtesy, but it is also entirely self-serving; I dislike drama or conflict when I’m “still waking up” even more than I dislike interacting with other people at that delicate hour, which is really saying something. The most effective means of avoiding all that is to be somewhere else, preferably where other people aren’t.

The co-work space is quiet. It’s early. I’m alone. There’s only the soft clicking of my fingers dancing across the keyboard, and the background noise of the ventilation. I sip my coffee (iced) and alternate with a hot cup of tea (chamomile & rose, with a bit of honey) to sooth my throat. My head aches, but it could be worse. My arthritis is griefing me, but again – I’ve had worse days than this. I am still fighting lingering symptoms of having been ill… and it’s been just a bit more than two weeks, now. (I knew what I was in for when the ick moved from my sinuses into my throat, then into my chest. I’ll fight this shit for weeks more, probably.) These fucking meat sacks are fragile and bothersome…but life, as it is, offers few alternatives. lol It is what we make of it. I chuckle to myself. I know damned well it could be so much worse. I breathe, exhale, and relax. Sip my coffee. Sip my tea. Think my thoughts.

2025 is nearly over. Good times, and hard times, we’ve seen some things, haven’t we? Wow. Another year over… another new year about to begin.

…the new year is a blank page…

I think for a bit about how easy it is to be down on each other – or ourselves – when things are going poorly, or in some moment of vexation or conflict. We may say some pretty terrible things to people we care for deeply, in some moment of anger or frustration. I’m not excusing that; bad behavior does not benefit from excuse-making. Better to correct it, once identified. We’re each human beings, being human, though, and it is true that hurt people often hurt people. We develope “coping skills” over a lifetime to deal with trauma and petty bullshit, and often don’t reevaluate those behaviors later in our lives when they are clearly no longer ideal (or possibly not even appropriate). Being kind, considerate, and gracious take practice. Saying “I’m sorry” takes practice. Being open and listening deeply take practice. Being an uplifting presence in our relationships instead of a chronically sarcastic buzzkill takes practice. For any one of us to become the human being we most want to be, there is a requirement that we do the work involved in changing who we may already have become at some point in the past. It is necessary to change. That all sounds really obvious… and I guess it mostly is, but…

…Sometimes when we’re stressed or feeling down about ourselves in some moment, we lose track of the real value we bring to our experience, and to the lives of those with whom we are “sharing the journey”. We overlook our value in our relationships. We have so much unrealized potential as human beings, each one of us, but when we are mired in harsh words, hurt feelings, emotional baggage, past trauma and present regrets, we wander around in a fog of hurt and sorrow feeling “stuck” and lacking options. It’s an illusion. We have value as individuals, and unique perspective and our own experience of life and the world.

If you’re having one of those moments when you can’t find meaning in your life, or don’t feel that your existence has value, or you are feeling overlooked, ignored, disregarded – whether for a moment or a lifetime – it is within your power to change that experience! Take time to appreciate you – who you are, where you’ve come from, how far you’ve come over time. Think about times you’ve made someone laugh, or lifted them up when they were blue – how often have you been there for someone? Reflect on the moments of joy and of delight, however small; they are yours to keep and to cherish. Spending more time on those than on the things you’re irked by is a good step forward. Reflect on the things you do well. Savor the details of some pleasant moment, however inconsequential. You are not defined by someone else’s anger, frustration, or expectations. You get to live your own life, and you are having your own experience. However disrespected you may feel by some other person, ideally you can always count on being respected by the person in the mirror. Treat yourself well, with consideration and respect. Give yourself a moment to be heard – by the person you, yourself, are. This isn’t groundbreaking new thinking, just some suggestions for lifting yourself out of a funk when you’re feeling low (because frankly sometimes people can be dicks, and it has nothing to do with whether you “deserved that” at all). Emotional lows are also part of the human experience (“deserved” or not). You are the surfer riding that wave – and you are also the water.

You know what you are not? You are not the sum of the negative opinions of other people. You are not defined by someone else’s anger, frustration, or disappointment. You’re also not the sum of the compliments you have received. Opinions are not the substance of reality. Who you are as a human being is defined by your actions, your choices, your behavior, and the quality of your relationships; and these are within your control. So… if you don’t like where you are in life, go somewhere else, or make changes (or both). Here we are, standing on the edge of an entire new year. This could be the beginning of something amazing! What will you do with your unrealized potential, and how will you choose your next steps? Where does your path lead? The menu in The Strange Diner is vast…you may have more options than you recognize in some moment of stress or sorrow.

I guess I’m just saying…don’t stand waste deep in the shit someone else flung at you telling yourself you have no choice but to stand there. You do have choices. You create meaning from what is otherwise meaningless – and this puts a lot of power to change your life into your own hands. You can defeat an emotional spiral threatening to suck you down into despair. You can walk away from conflict – or even heal the hurts that created it. You have more power than you know.

…And there’s a whole new year ahead…

It’s time to begin again. Where does your path lead? What will you do to become the person you most want to be, in 2026? Are you ready? The clock is ticking…

…May be an obstacle. Sometimes it’s a matter of perspective and expectations.

I’m sitting quietly in my meditation/studio/office space, which also serves as my “anything specifically me” space, and has a comfortable couch well-suited to sleeping, napping, reading, and meditation along one wall, my work desk on the opposite wall filling the space from the door to the corner. I’ve got the lights dimmed. I’ve got noise-cancelling headsets on, set to “quiet”, and no music playing. Just quiet. All around me, little things my beloved Traveling Partner has made for me, built for me, done for me, suggested to me – that’s a lot of love in this small room. Even the “do not disturb” sign presently hanging from the door knob as a cautionary suggestion was made for me by my Traveling Partner.

…This afternoon, I am “enjoying” a rare hour home alone by “dealing with” my PTSD. Not what I had planned, for sure, but it is the set of circumstances in front of me. Maddening – and thus, I am soothing myself through the madness. So far, so good. (The solitude is helpful for me – well-timed – I am most successful at managing my symptoms and nudging myself back to a grounded emotional place if I am not also having to interact with other people.) The muffled quiet and the heavy embrace of the headphones feels comforting, like a boundary being respected. I breathe, exhale, and relax – well, I make the attempt. It’s going to take some practice. My shallow breathing, tight chest, and trembling begin to diminish a little at a time, breath by breath. Progress. I keep practicing. Meditation works pretty reliably for me.

(Before I begin writing, I split my display into two windows, and keep messages open in case someone needs to reach me, this only works because I’m in an environment where boundaries are generally respected with care. I’m not trying to be hurtful by stepping away, just taking care of myself.)

In 2013, a similar situation might have resulted in a major emotional meltdown, yelling, tears, hysterical rage, finishing with some sort of physical collapse, often followed by succumbing to illness and not being able to bounce back emotionally for days or weeks. I lacked emotional resilience (that’s putting it very gently!). My PTSD and my anxiety were out of control. I teetered on a precipice and got a lucky break when one more attempt at seeking therapy finally paid off in new tools, and real improvements. That’s not the point though, the point is – I’m still me. I’ve got some “issues”. I manage them better than I’ve ever done before, and it has been a worthy journey. Therapy, treatment, for some mental or emotional issues (or even for some physical ailments or injuries) isn’t going to be 100% a “cure”, or fix that fixes everything in some permanent way. Results vary. Years of trauma often don’t have a reliable permanent “fix”, at all; those experiences change the way we’re wired. For some people, that’s exceedingly hard to change for the better, in adulthood. We do become what we practice, though, and given better tools and more effective practices, it has been possible to get pretty fucking close to “fixed”, and that’s amazing. It’s also something I recognize as feeling like it “isn’t enough”, now and then, when I find myself fighting my demons in the darkness, again, or fall through some thinking hole when I’m fatigued beyond my capacity to reason, or get triggered by a circumstance (or someone dear to me who would never do me an intentional injury). That’s hard. It’s also only an emotion, and potentially unreliable. Today? Today I’m just dealing with my bullshit. I’m okay for most values of “okay”, just super irritable and doing my best not to let that reach beyond this room.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I’m okay. Moments are fleeting. Perhaps the next will be much better, filled with joy and laughter and love? I’m open to that. It’s time to begin again.

I’m sipping my coffee (hot, black) grateful to have it. The hot liquid feels soothing on my still-raw feeling throat, although the discomfort is no longer up high near my uvula, and is definitely showing indications of having moved into my chest instead of lingering in my sinuses. I’m still unwell, but I’m working today; there is much to do as the year winds down, and giving up on it is not an effective strategy for making more money at some future point. (I don’t much like that this matters more to me right now than my fucking health, but this is America.) The box of tissues on my desk, alongside the hand sanitizer, and me wearing a mask, gives adequate caution to others that keeping their distance is a good choice.

My Traveling Partner woke me this morning, early, checking whether I was okay. I mumbled something about being okay, because for most values of “okay” I surely was. I was dead asleep when his voice roused me, but having wakened and seeing it was nearly time to begin a normal work day, I went ahead and got up, dressed, and left for the co-work space I typically use when the university library is not open. There was no traffic at all, but it was also too early to get coffee on the way. It was fine. I was awake, and the rainy drive was much improved by how little traffic there was.

None of this really “matters“, it’s just the set up for the punchline to a joke that isn’t actually funny. I let that go. I’m grateful that I feel well enough to face a work day, honestly. I’m grateful for the hot coffee that was available when I got to the office. I’m grateful for the instant chicken soup which proves to be far more satisfying than the coffee. I’m grateful for a few quiet minutes alone with my thoughts before this co-work space fills with other co-working professionals, and grateful for a desk that puts considerable distance between me and others. I’m grateful for my Traveling Partner, who does so much to care for me when I’m not well. I’m okay for most values of “okay” now, and I definitely feel better than I did yesterday, in spite of the cough I’ve now developed, that will likely linger for days or even weeks after I’m fully over whatever ick took me down in the first place.

…I can’t say I feel much like working, there’s just a lot to do…

I savor the hot too-salty flavorful instant chicken soup. There’s an intense comfort to it when I feel this way. It’s enough to satisfy what limited appetite I’ve got, and enough to genuinely “make me feel better”, every bit as much as the cold remedies I also took. Funny how “enough” changes with the circumstances, eh? On a beautiful summer morning, on some beach or forested trail, there’s little chance this off-brand cheap poor quality instant chicken soup would be at all satisfying, but here, now? It’s definitely enough and I’m grateful to have it. That brings my thoughts to the Giftmas holiday ahead. I think over the unwrapped gifts stacked in an out of the way spot needing to be wrapped and placed under the tree. Are they “enough”? G’damn, I sure hope so. They seem less than I’d like to be putting under the tree this year, but… this is what we had to work with for resources, and anyway, it’s more about presence than presents. I do like presents, no need to be coy about it, but it’s not “the big deal” it felt like in some years past.

I sigh to myself, eager to see the other side of the day, though it should be quite manageable and pretty chill, generally. Pain and illness color my subjective experience of work and even this one moment of quiet, solitude, and peace. It would be ease to slide into anger, frustration, or despair – I’m one bit of bad news or moment of Other People’s Drama away from it almost all the time, these days. Frankly, I’m appalled by the state of American governance, and it lurks in the background of my consciousness however often I attempt to resolve it, somehow. That is one of the “secrets” of human suffering; how often we choose it. I don’t bother with looking at the news today; the president gave another one of his rambling ill-informed misleading fatuous self-serving narcissistic vile and cruel speeches yesterday, and the news feeds will echo that slop for days to come. Fuck that shit; I’d be stupider for every word of his bullshit I allow into my consciousness. I’ll wait for any rationally fact-checked breakdown of that nonsense that may surface, but I certainly don’t want to expose my mind directly to that fuckwit’s voice. (If I’ve offended you, dear reader, my apologies. If you voted for that grifter and his corrupt clown car of cronies, I can’t say I understand your choice at all, but this is a democracy – for now – and it is your right to cast your vote as you will and endure the consequences of your choices, however ridiculous or hateful those look to me. It’s a shame so many other people get hurt along the way.)

I correct my posture, and breathe more deeply. Breathe, exhale, relax. I meditate. I make a point of crafting detailed mental imagery of myself as a woman standing in an airport, setting down baggage and walking away. I feel lighter for doing so, even though it is only an imagined moment. This is a practice that can bring real change of perspective and subjective experience. “Visualization” works as a practice, but indulged without consideration and care, it can drag one into a nasty negative spiral, too. Still a good practice, but associated (as many things are) with an inherent risk. Visualizing trauma and negative experiences or feelings can bring those much closer, rendering them in a very immediate and visceral way that can cause further damage. Visualizing positive experiences and moments (real or pure imagination) similarly renders those in a more immediate and visceral way, seeming to make them “more real”, and incorporating those feelings into our implicit “sense of being” in a truly useful way. Choose wisely.

I read an article recently that touched on the concepts of positive visualization for dealing with anger. If you’re someone who struggles with managing your temper in relationships, flaring up over small things that likely don’t rate that sort of escalated reaction, this one may be worth a read. Useful and practical, the basic idea is that imagining positive interactions, and reinforcing positive feelings about an individual, will tend to improve the relationship with the real person in real life interactions. That seems worth knowing, doesn’t it? Worth practicing? We become what we practice. It may be a poor choice to practice being angry and hateful… It seems unlikely that any of us would actually want to become angry hateful people. I sit with my thoughts awhile.

I stretch and refill my coffee. There’s an entire work day ahead to get through and much to do. It’s already time to begin again.

It’s almost Giftmas time! I admit to counting down the days like a kid, just as eager for Santa to come as if I didn’t know the factual truth of the holiday; we are Santa, as much as we each undertake to be. All around the US, kids are eagerly counting down the days until the holiday – however it is celebrated in their home (if it is). Parents, on the other hand, experience that countdown differently, and they may be counting down the days to the next payday, a little concerned about whether the dollars will stretch for another gift or two under the tree, or whether the lights will be on, or the heating bill paid. Right about this time of year, I’d often hear my Dad’s vexation come through as “If you birds don’t knock that shit off there won’t be any Christmas!” (And oh, damn, the tears that would be shed following that announcement!)

…Our tree often sat in a bucket on the porch, quite bare, until Giftmas Eve, when my Dad would set it up, and make certain it was quite upright with my Mother’s help (she would hang a plumb bob from some point on the stairs, such that my Dad could see it alongside the tree, to trim this or that branch, or adjust the screws in the base holding the tree,and some water for it). We’d all go to bed, passing by the fragrant bare tree standing in the livingroom, wondering if Santa would really come.

Making holidays magical.

I can’t even wrap my head around how my parents made holiday magic every year. They stayed up into the wee hours, decorating the tree together after we kids had gone to bed. They’d assemble things with “some assembly required”. Last minute gifts would be wrapped in secret. All the gifts previously purchased and wrapped would be pulled from their hiding places, and placed under the now-decorated tree. Empty stockings would be taken down from the mantle, filled, and as my parent’s finally went to bed (sometimes closer to 4 am than to 2 am), they would gently lay the stockings at the foot of each kid’s bed – a neat holiday touch that also bought them a little additional time to sleep, since we were allowed to open our stockings quietly and enjoy anything we found, so long as we did not wake them before 5 am. I’m fairly certain that some years, it was our excitement combined with the quiet sound of their bedroom door closing that woke us. Not a lot of sleep-in time in that scenario. lol But wow… the holiday magic was intense, and has lasted me a lifetime.

… I believed in a literal real Santa Claus until embarrassingly late in life, still convinced at 15, reluctantly accepting the truth at some point before I turned 17…

A modest tree, every ornament has history. What stories does your tree tell?

‘Tis the season, eh? How will you be making someone’s holiday bright? What twinkle lights will illuminate your hearth and home with a soft holiday glow in the wee hours of the night? What memories will you make, and carry into the dark nights of your future? What experiences will you share with those dear to you? I call it “Giftmas” instead of “Christmas”, but the holiday is still one that is more about presence than presents. (I do love the presents… but there’s more to it than that, by far.) For me this holiday is a celebration of love and community and getting through our darkest times together; it’s no coincidence that this holiday is so near to the Solstice. The nights are long, dark, and in many places very cold. Resources begin to run low. We rely on each other for our shared survival – this is a time for remembering that, and also celebrating it with a meaningful exchange of gifts. I mean… I think that’s what this holiday is about. That’s what it is for me.

I smile and face another work day. I’m counting down the days, now… 8 more to Giftmas Eve! Will Santa come? Will there be gifts under the tree? A tasty Giftmas morning brunch? A too-early celebration of the day, over coffee or cocktails, still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes? Will there be carols on the stereo? Harry Potter, Home Alone, Christmas Story, Scrooged, and the Grinch on video? A roast supper that seems more elegant with holiday decor in the background? Unexpected packages on the front step? Visits from friends or family? General merriment, the chaos of torn wrapping paper, and the sudden urge to nap before noon? I don’t know. Yes? I don’t build my expectations on any particular detail; I just enjoy the season as it is, all the options, all the challenges, all the choices, and these precious finite moments together – or in solitude. (No wrong answers; we’re each having our own experience, and I have enjoyed some memorable, beautiful Giftmas holidays alone.)

My mind wanders to another magical Giftmas; the first I shared with my Traveling Partner. (If I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend my life with this man before that first Giftmas holiday together, I was definitely certain afterward.) He made that holiday happen for us – for me. It was a gesture of pure love. We didn’t have the means, we had just moved into an apartment together that was double the rent either of us had been paying before. We made a frugal decision to “skip it this year” (no children to disappoint). It kind of bummed me out, but I was “being grown up about it”. Then that cold afternoon that I arrived home… to a small holiday tree, lit and if I’m recalling correctly, decorated. I was moved to happy tears. I’ve never forgotten that loving gesture. It’s one of my fondest Giftmas memories.

I sigh to myself and realize I am distracting myself from physical pain with holiday merriment. I mean… okay. Useful. Handy. I’m okay with it, but the work day is not going to complete itself, and it’s already time to begin again…

I’m at a local trailhead, waiting for a break in the rain to walk this trail. It’s dark, not yet daybreak, and a Monday morning. The rain is falling hard, and the wind is blowing hard enough for the strongest gusts to create the appearance of waves on puddles reflecting the lights of the parking lot. If I were to walk now, I’d be soaked almost immediately, and having to fight my rain poncho every step as it whips about. No thanks. I’ll wait. 😆

The weekend was lovely. I sit thinking about the upcoming Giftmas holiday. It is shaping up to be a merry one, if modest in scale (appropriate to these peculiarly dark times here in the US).

My mind wanders to work. I pull it back to this quiet moment, here. Now is mine. At least, this “now”, right here is mine. I make a point to be present, here, listening to the wind and the rain. I think of other rainy moments that left lasting memories for one reason or another. In the distance, I see holiday lights shining through the trees along the creek beyond the vineyard, most likely decorating some otherwise hidden apartment balcony. Seeing the lights makes me smile. Seeing communities “dressed up” for the holidays in colorful lights is one of the best parts of the winter holiday season (to me).

Things on my to-do list for today continue to intrude on my consciousness – or try to. I continue to set a boundary with myself; this is not that time.

The rain stops, starts, and stops again. It’ll be daybreak soon. Can I get down the trail and back to the car before the rain starts up again? I decide to chance it, and grab my cane and pull on my poncho.

I’m most of the way along the trail before the rain begins to fall again, softly. I’m almost back to the car before the intensity increases from a soft sprinkle to a seasonally typical downpour. The heavy rain catches up with me just as I reach the car. I feel fortunate. I’m not soaked to the skin, missed the worst of the rain, got a good walk, and managed to avoid tromping through any deep puddles. I’m chilly and damp, but otherwise fine. I get comfortable in the car and start drying off with a microfiber towel from my gear bin, grateful for the gear I keep in the back for whatever emergencies might arise (and for hiking and camping).

The gear bin in my car sometimes gives a sort of “Mary Poppins” vibe; I often surprise myself with what is in there, and how prepared for what sorts of things I actually am. This delights me every time I open the bin with some need to address and find that I’ve got just the thing, although I often don’t recall that I put it there. 😆

The wind is blowing ferociously again. It almost drowns out the sounds of my tinnitus. I close my eyes and am fascinated by how much I am reminded of the seashore.

There’s really nothing particularly noteworthy about the morning. As is so often the case, it’s an ordinary weekday morning. The pain I’m in makes me aware of my fragile mortality for a moment, but as bad as it is, it’s not the worst I’ve known. Far from it. I’m grateful to experience the morning aware that things could be much worse; it is reliably useful perspective. I continue to sit with my thoughts awhile longer. I’ve got a little while left for myself before the desk in the library I’ll be working from today will be available. It’s still too early. I think about coffee.

I think about holiday cards (we haven’t done them this year and probably won’t; at some point I had to admit I don’t have the energy, or the will). I think about the last bit of gift shopping yet to do. I think about Giftmas morning and brunch. Biscuits and gravy this year? I find myself wanting to pair that with Bloody Marys, as my Dad would have done most Giftmas mornings. I rarely drink, and the thought makes me smile; it’s an idea built purely on nostalgia, and maybe some desire to celebrate a certain gratitude for the holiday magic my parents achieved in spite of hardship. I’ve carried that holiday spirit into the rest of my life, year after year, and I’m grateful that it continues to last.

Curtains of dense rain continue to sweep over the car. The wind rocks it with the firmest gusts. I am warm and dry, and grateful that I am not forced to be outdoors in this. There’s privilege implied in being free to choose to walk on a rainy day. I’m grateful for the choices I have in life. I may never be wealthy (nor have any notable affluence), but I do get to choose whether (and when) I walk in the rain. That’s more good fortune than many folks have. I sit thinking about that for a few minutes longer.

In spite of the darkness of the stormy morning sky, eventually daybreak comes, and it’s time to begin again. I sigh to myself, and get the day started.