Not much of a countdown left; day after tomorrow I head out for a couple days break from the stress and workload of caregiving, to spend a little quality time in my own head, taking care of me for a couple days. 3. Three days of downtime. I find myself eager and also a little bit anxious.
Before dawn.
I woke a little early. I got to the trailhead before daybreak. I wait for the sun, sitting quietly, writing. It’s a bit chilly this morning and I am grateful for the cozy warm sweatshirt I am wearing. Sunrise is coming later already. The days are definitely shorter than a month ago.
Yesterday was weird and difficult, but for me that was mostly “second dart suffering”, fatigue, and the chemistry of human emotion. It passed, and the conversations that came out of that were needful and handled with love and consideration. I don’t actually recall the end of the evening with much detail, beyond the lingering awareness that it was quite pleasant.
The morning begins well. I’m hopeful about the day ahead. I watch as daybreak shifts the hue of the sky from its darkest blue to lighter blues and a subtle hint of something not quite green and not quite yellow on the horizon. Sunrise soon. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I think of my Traveling Partner, and hope that he is sleeping deeply at home, getting rest that he needs so much. I lace up my boots. There’s enough light now to see the trail…
I walked the trail in the chill of the morning. I walked with my thoughts and my tinnitus and my pain, contemplating how easily we “understand” each other without actually being able to truly understand each other. We’re each having our own experience.
It’s pretty easy to think I understand my Traveling Partner’s pain. I have pain myself, and it is chronic and a substantial part of my experience. But, and this is important, we experience our individual pain quite alone. I can’t feel his. He can’t feel mine. Our sympathy, empathy, and compassion are built on our good intentions, our desire to be helpful and understanding, and our perspective on our own pain, which is what we know. Our lived experience may provide us with useful insights, but it may also limit our ability to truly understand.
… It’s fucking hard sometimes…
Yesterday I watched the Anxious Adventurer express understanding of my Traveling Partner’s pain – through the lens of his own ordinary aches and pains, as if the pain of a spinal injury would compare at all. I catch myself doing it, and although the pain of my persistent headache, spinal arthritis, and degenerative disk disease in my neck likely get me closer to real understanding, it’s still not the pain my partner experiences. I can’t know that, I can only guess, listen when he talks about it, and do the work of being humane and supportive and kind. It’s fucking hard sometimes, especially just accepting the fact that truly we can’t know each other’s pain.
… Pain sucks and pain management is complicated by our very broken healthcare system, in which doctors also seem to lose sight of how little they can actually “understand” a patient’s pain, beyond listening, themselves.
We’re each having our own experience. Don’t be a dick about someone else’s pain. You can’t know what they’re going through, really, and it isn’t a fucking competition. It doesn’t matter at all whose pain is “the worst”. Our own pain is always the worst we’ve ever personally experienced, and if all you’ve known is occasional sore muscles or stubbed toes, you certainly don’t know anything much about pain. Be kind. Be patient. Be compassionate. Be gentle. People are suffering and hurting. You can’t know what they don’t share, and you don’t know much even when they do.
I hurt this morning. The chill makes my bones ache. I walk on. It could be worse. I’m doing my best not to take my own pain personally. I have my own way of dealing with my pain. It’s not always effective but it’s mostly enough, most of the time; a complex assortment of practices, medication, and pure seething anger about being in pain in the first place. I push through when I can. When I can’t… I cry. Like… A lot.
… It’s hard seeing my Traveling Partner in pain. I feel so helpless…
… My own pain is barely managed day-to-day…
I sigh and keep on walking. I stop to answer angry frustrated pings from my partner, who is in pain. Pain shrinks his world. It’s most of what’s going on for him, until he has his surgery and moves on to recovery and rehabilitation. It’s a complicated journey. I wish I could do more. I try not to be a dick about his pain and the way it affects him…
There’s another work day ahead, then one more, and a day to run errands… Then I get a short (but very needed) break from caregiving and from my partner’s pain, before his surgery.
… I still have my own…
I take a few minutes to write and reflect. It’s not satisfying. My Traveling Partner is awake and pinging me and needing emotional support. This is a difficult experience and I do what I do; I push my own needs to the side to provide support. I’m irked with the Anxious Adventurer, who hasn’t figured out a morning routine that respects my partner’s need to rest. I’m annoyed in a very human way because this affects my morning experience too. This shit is hard.
… I stifle my frustration. None of this is personal…
This is an endurance race, not a sprint. I try to look at the morning through the lens of opportunity for growth… I just have to begin again…
I’m honestly not even a “morning person”, in the sense people generally seem to mean by the phrase. I’m just an early riser by habit. I would sleep in if I could. I am not at peak energy in the early morning. I don’t prefer to interact with people in the morning until I’ve been up a good long while and had some coffee and quiet time to myself. I’m often quite irritable first thing. See? Not a “morning person”, but I most definitely appreciate seeing the sun rise again.
This one is hues of orange.
…We are mortal creatures, and there is no guarantee we’ll see the next sunrise…
I’ve grown to truly love seeing the sun rise each morning. I’m often on some trail when the sun rises, or on the road headed to a trailhead for a walk in the morning. It’s a pleasant way to begin a day. I walk with my thoughts. I take a few pictures. I reach some likely spot for meditation, a bit of writing, maybe some yoga. Over the past four years this morning walk has grown from an occasionally expedient use of my time that happens to be pleasant, to become a firm and reliable self-care practice. I often feel out of sorts and unprepared for the day without my walk – and the chance to see the sun rise again.
… How many more sunrises will I have to enjoy? I have no way to know…
…We are mortal creatures…
I walk the trail, happy with the start to my day. Content with my thoughts and my experience. Satisfied with being in this moment. I don’t need anything different than what I have now. I keep walking. The morning is mild. The air is scented by wildflowers. I am alone. I hear traffic in the distance and an airplane overhead; it’s far too rare to truly avoid the sound of humankind busily going about the business of being human. We’re noisy creatures. I shrug it off and keep walking.
Breathe, exhale, relax…and walk on. Life is a journey. The path ahead is built on my choices. When I falter, I can begin again. I am my own cartographer. This is my journey. These are my choices. I walk on, one step at a time.
… My Traveling Partner wakes at home and pings me a greeting. I stop for a moment to reply, and to reflect and write…
Another sunrise. Another new day. Another chance to begin again. It’s enough.
Rain fell during the night. The morning air when I stepped out into the predawn darkness was fresh and humid. The days are already noticeably shorter. Daybreak came and went, revealing stormy clouds that threaten the possibility of thunderstorms.
The first hint of a new day.
I put on my boots at the trailhead, my mind on my walk, my heart feeling light, and hoping that my Traveling Partner got a second night of really restful sleep after a change to his medication. These human bodies are so fragile and complicated, and lack a proper user’s manual.
Yesterday was a good day, productive and sufficiently restful to feel as if I got a bit of a break from the grind. Most of my day was spent supporting the Anxious Adventurer, sorting out his vehicle needs for work, and getting his hoopty sold and out of the way. Easy but time-consuming. I was glad I had gone to the store earlier, and that I had a plan for lunch. The day lasted well-past when I might usually go to bed, but we were having a good time hanging out together, and I went with it. There’s been stress and worry and struggle aplenty lately, and it was good to just enjoy a few moments together.
… I still woke up at 4 a.m. LOL
The stormy sky this morning delights me, as the luminous pink of an unseen sunrise shifts with the clouds. I snap a few shots, thinking about those pastels. Maybe today I’ll spend some time painting?
Like thoughts, shifting.
I walked the trail thinking my thoughts and listening to the passing geese overhead. The air smells like it may rain again. I sit at my favorite spot along the trail and listen carefully. Was that thunder? Makes sense that it could be.
… Definitely thunder…
I think about the day ahead. There are things to do to prepare for the week, and next weekend will see me heading down the highway to the coast for a couple days. I’m eager to go, knowing my Traveling Partner won’t be left home alone this time. That’s very reassuring.
My mind wanders. I don’t stop it. I let my thoughts drift as I drink in the fresh air, and this quiet calm moment. It’s such a small thing, but this is an important self-care practice for me, to simply sit quietly and be for some little while. No criticism or doubt, no negative self-talk or worry, just a few quiet minutes as my thoughts drift by like summer storm clouds. I am awake, aware, and grateful. I breathe, exhale, and relax, listening to the sound of distant thunder.
A fat, warm, unexpected rain drop hits my face, and then another, and another. Will it actually rain? Maybe. Maybe not. The “maybe” is enough to put my mind on finishing my walk, so I finish my thoughts, finish my writing, and prepare to begin again.
Yesterday went sideways fast, mostly a byproduct of pain (mine, and his), and associated emotional volatility. Mine. His. It sucked and generally speaking the entire day was pretty much wrecked by it. Oddly, from an outside perspective, apparently, the details of the day amounted to “a great day” characterized by numerous successes, but the emotional qualities of the experience were wildly out of touch with any of that. Being human is complicated sometimes.
As bad as the day seemed, generally, it began and ended well. Not my usual experience, and it seems (on reflection) somehow associated with the addition of the Anxious Adventurer to the household dynamic. Interesting. Looking back on the day it “doesn’t seem so bad”, but good grief I am glad it’s behind me and I am hoping for better today. I’m in less pain… A promising start.
Here comes another opportunity!
I hit the trail just at daybreak. The morning had a slight chill to it that felt refreshing. The sunrise began as a smudgy streak of a reddish hue, like a wound becoming infected. The air was still, and hazy in the distance. My tinnitus was far louder in my ears than the sound of distant traffic. I walked along, listening to my own steps, thinking my solitary thoughts.
…10 days until my coastal getaway…
The case I purchased to hold, protect, and transport my pastels arrived yesterday and I took a moment to put the delicate sticks of colorful pigments into their new home. No more small boxes – just one tidy case. I’m delighted with the result, and feel more prepared for my upcoming trip to the coast to paint. I sit at the halfway point of my walk, thinking about art, love, and inspiration, and watching the sun rise. The work day will begin soon enough, and I’ll turn my thoughts to work when it does. For now, my time is my own.
I’m looking forward to the weekend, though it seems likely to be quite a busy one. I’ve got a number of boxes set aside, filled with small objects and items quickly packed and moved out of the way to make room for the Anxious Adventurer. Now that things are settling down, it’s time to take a closer look, to dispose of what lacks value, to display noteworthy curiosities and decorative things, where space permits, and more carefully pack those things worth keeping but for which the time is not now. Then whatever boxes there are will go to storage for a while. It’s a process that can be a bit emotional, and although I am not dreading it, I’m also not looking forward to it.
I breathe exhale and relax. The sun is deep luminous orange as it rises above the horizon. I save my draft and turn back up the trail. The sunrise dazzles my eyes as I walk through the oaks.
Don’t stare into the sun!
The air is already warming up. I’m thinking about coffee and new beginnings, and change. I’m feeling pretty good this morning, aside from the headache that accompanies me most days. Getting to the car, I sit on a nearby picnic table to finish my writing, change my boots for softer shoes, and sit for a moment, just being. I watch the sun through the trees and contemplate how I would compose the scene on paper and how that might work in pastel. Old thoughts, new medium.
…Fuck, my tinnitus is so loud. I make a point to listen to myself breathing, which helps “put the tinnitus in perspective” and anchor my awareness to externally audible sounds.
…My Traveling Partner pings me…
It’s hours later. My plans were upended pretty quickly. My morning walk had served to give my partner a bit more time to get the rest he needs, but the Anxious Adventurer has his own routine, and his own work hours, and his own plan, and my partner was awake earlier than he’d hoped, with no likelihood of getting more rest if I were to be working from home, as I’d intended. It was early enough in the morning to make a change, easily, with no particular stress and I offered to do so, and hastened home to grab my laptop and head to the office. It’s nice to have the option. My day ends up starting a bit later than I planned, which means it will end later than I’d like, but if my Traveling Partner gets the rest he needs, it’s a win for both of us.
…The necessity to begin again comes in a lot of forms. The willingness to make a change based on circumstances is a useful first step. Then, by beginning where I actually am, I can proceed to the next thing, the next need, the next plan… the next moment. So far, it’s still a lovely day – and all I had to do was begin again. 😀
Evening Light 