Archives for category: inspiration
« Older Entries

Something Like That, But Different

September 11, 2026 //
0

Weird morning… but, not really, I guess. That is part of the sensation of strangeness; the morning has been so utterly ordinary it feels rather strange.

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

I reached the halfway point of my walk in good time. My thoughts are my own.

Very bright (excessively) outdoor lights on a nearby farm building have all been turned on, and they irritate me a bit, but I imagine the farm workers prefer not having to work in the dark. I was grateful when the path turned and put those lights behind me. Walking towards them, they were blinding me a bit. Walking with these very bright lights at my back, the trail ahead is well lit, and my headlamp is not necessary.

Here at this spot along the trail, I can still see those lights, but they are neither helpful nor blinding, only specks of light in the greater darkness. I think about that awhile. A useful metaphor.

I yawn and stretch. How am I this stiff and sore?! I feel like I was in a fight, or endured hours of intense exercise – and I have had no such experiences recently. I definitely could have slept longer. I sit with that thought for a slow moment, doing nothing else. I’m looking forward to a few days of painting on the coast, and watching the tides come and go, over the Equinox… and sleeping in. I’m definitely looking forward to sleeping in.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate. I reflect on this and that. More breathing (best to keep that going, yeah? 😆).

This is one of those quiet, easy to take for granted, sort of mornings on which everything seems…fine. Pleasant. Quite enjoyable all around, save for the subtle nagging sensation that it won’t last. I chuckle to myself at the very idea that it could be any other way. That’s the tempting lie; imagining that life might ever be other than it is, (which is generally fraught with trauma and turmoil, and challenging circumstances) for anything more than a moment. I smile feeling a little like I know some notable secret that unlocks the mystery of life (I don’t). “Go with it,” isn’t much of a secret. Neither is “be kind to yourself,” nor is “enjoy the moment you’re in”. These are potentially mere platitudes with limited utility. It matters greatly how (and whether) I put them to some kind of use.

…Verbs…

It was nice to get into the studio for a little while yesterday, after work. Productive time for and about me – and considering how good that felt, I should clearly be doing it more often. Hell, I even ended the day with enough left in me to cook a proper meal! (I make an excellent and thoroughly delicious stir-fry.)

…I forgot to grab my lunch as I left the house…

I barely notice daybreak when it comes, sitting here with my thoughts. I sigh and get to my feet. Like a child pulling the covers up over me to be warmer, finding too late that my feet have become cold, I consider beginning work early to end the work day earlier. I laugh at myself. I’m familiar with how that tends to work out in practice; working longer for no good reason, and with little value. I commit to relaxing with my thoughts a few more minutes.

…Then I begin again. I’ve got a whole new day for being and becoming, and practicing practices. I hope I choose wisely.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, Words

Art and Laundry

September 8, 2026 //
0

I spent beautiful hours in my studio yesterday, productive, creative time. More importantly, it was time spent painting things I lack words for. Art is good for that.

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

There are many people who think they “don’t like” (visual) art, or don’t understand it. When I hear that, I often wonder if they have ever given thought to the idea that art is quite personal. Between the work as a practical thing and the perspective on the piece that each individual brings to seeing it, the understanding exists as a thing of its own. Every piece is not for every person. Don’t like Jackson Pollock? Okay. There are many other artists. Can I interest you in Monet, Van Gogh, or Peter Max? How about Ronnie Gold or Rothko? Each artist communicating their own way, about what matters to them, and putting it out into the world where a multitude can see it. Each person with their own thoughts and perspective, and potentially taking something from any given work that even the artist did not understand from the piece. That’s how art functions as communication, but whether a particular piece leaves any one individual unmoved is…fine. Also the way art works. Some pieces are not for us.

“Seeing Red”

… I paint things that “aren’t for you” all the time. Sometimes I paint things that are not for me, as well. 😆 I often paint to express something difficult or to process emotions, as a way of getting something “off my chest”, and to say it, to transform it, or to rob it of power over me. For me art is an act of self-care.

I walk down this morning’s trail, thinking about art and eager to be back in the studio again. My Traveling Partner also knows how important time spent painting is for me and he kept nudging me gently toward the studio yesterday, helping me avoid self-care self-sabotage traps (like housekeeping tasks that can wait a day or two). This morning I feel lighter of heart and more contented. I keep walking.

A wispy autumn mist envelopes me as I near the creek. It’s cooler this morning. I’m grateful for the cozy sweater I chose this morning. Laundry is something I can do “while I paint”, but I didn’t finish the task; it is unfolded, still in the laundry basket. This sweater just happened to be on top. lol That seems very human. And isn’t that the thing about art? It is uniquely human. Human ideas, human emotions, human complexities, human stories… “Art” created by AI isn’t actually art.

“Skyline Sunset”

I breathe the chilly morning air. It definitely smells of autumn now. Somewhere in the distance, someone has recently had their fireplace lit; I smell a faint hint of wood smoke in the air. Daybreak comes as I reach my halfway point. Chased by Venus, the crescent moon has been rising as I walk. She’s still visible, but as daylight fills the sky, the moon fades from view. I stop to write, reflect, and meditate. It’s a new day.

My thoughts are filled with paintings I’d like to paint… my studio is waiting on the other side of the work day… it’s a good time to begin again.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, Art, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, thoughts on AI, War and News of War, women, Words

The Plan Is Not The Experience

September 7, 2026 //
0

I made my plan yesterday evening, after returning from the coast. I’d take my walk in the morning, and return home, do a needful housekeeping project, do laundry, and paint. My plan has already begun to unravel.

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

I stepped out onto the trail and it … squished. Mud. Quite a lot of mud, actually. I guess I’m not surprised; we’ve had a couple days of rain. In late fall and winter, I don’t bother with this trail, because it becomes treacherously muddy and difficult for me. I sigh to myself. It’s not going to be that bad, but I don’t see enough with my headlamp to feel wholly secure tackling this trail that runs alongside the Willamette River for quite a distance. Sliding off some bit of river bank into that icy water is not on my list of desirable adventures to enjoy on a Monday off! 😆

I get back in the car to write and meditate and wait for daybreak.

When daybreak comes, I embrace the opportunity to see the world with new eyes.

The trail is slick in spots and muddy, but not impassably so. I slow down, grateful for my cane. The morning is cool and still smells of rain. The robins are out, calling to each other from the trees, and scurrying along the ground, looking for tasty morsels. Chipmunks, squirrels, bunnies – it’s a fun morning to spot creatures along my route. Before I got started, there was an owl calling from somewhere very nearby. I take my time and enjoy the walk.

One of many bunnies. So many bunnies. 😆

The bunnies – young from this year, I think, based on their size – cavort happily in the weeds and shrubbery along the path, now and then darting across the path to the other side. They disappear into the brush as I approach, and reappear behind me after I pass. I wonder to myself how many will survive the hungry owl I heard earlier?

I notice leaves already beginning to turn. It seems “too soon” for those changes, but the equinox is only two weeks away. I keep walking.

The sun begins to rise above the trees on the opposite bank of the river, to the east. It shines golden through the trees. Hints of gold, amber, and russet hues among the leaves and dense summer foliage are more pronounced in the sun beams stretching across the path. Seasons change. The clock ticks on.

Annoying loud voices approach from behind me on the trail. I pause and step to the side, turning to have a look. Loud older men, with fishing gear and a rather ridiculous amount of genial camaraderie, making their way to some favorite fishing spot, with as much right to be here as I have myself. They’re still fucking annoying, being all loud and stuff on this lovely quiet morning. They each raise a hand in greeting and offer me a boisterous good morning greeting. I nod, wave, and return their greeting, staying back from the path until they pass by, then continue on my way, happy that the branching trail takes me up the hill and around the other side of the meadow, in the opposite direction.

A new day will come, and with it a chance to begin again.

“Softly, as in a morning sunrise…” I begin to sing as I walk, feeling the moment differently as the golden light fills the space between the leaves of the trees along the path. Oh, to be sure, the legacy of Nancy Wilson has nothing to fear from me. 😆 I can’t carry a tune – but I love the way it feels to sing the song in my heart.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I definitely still plan to paint today, but I know the value of a plan, and I have been humbled by circumstances too often to count on a plan becoming reality. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I sit down to my easel, but inspiration won’t make the short trip from my mind to my hands, or maybe my hands won’t cooperate in bringing my inspiration to life? Maybe my Traveling Partner will ask for my help with something else? Maybe… Life is a sea of maybes and the plan is not the experience.

Practice non-attachment. Count on impermanence. Change is.

My headache reminds that this fragile vessel has its own limitations to be accounted for. I sigh quietly. I keep walking. The clock keeps ticking. The sun rises on a new day.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, women, Words

That Ticking Clock

September 4, 2026 //
0

Damn, mortality is a massive buzz kill, sometimes. I heard at work yesterday that Gloria Steinem had died. I sat with that awhile, then. I’ve been thinking about it this morning.

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

She was an important figure in the feminist movement, sure. She was an important figure in a lot of the progress women have made in the past 6 decades. That’s a lot of influence in the lives of women.

Gloria Steinem was all that and probably more. I never met her, but she was important to me on a more personal level than purely as an icon. In 1995, sometime shortly before I left my violent first marriage (finally), I read Moving Beyond Words. I read it again, my first solitary weekend in my new apartment after I left that marriage (and after my Granny had returned home from helping me move out – and move on). This book got my attention and really moved me. It reignited something inside me that had been collecting dust a long time.

I wrote Gloria a letter. It wasn’t a fan girl missive, so much as a quick and vulnerable thank you note. She replied, eventually, and I was surprised and grateful. She wrote telling me it might be hard, this journey that is one woman’s life, and to honor myself and trust in my worth. I’ve continued to treasure that letter, in the years since. Taking it from its envelope gently now and then, and reading it again. Gloria knew that the clock is always ticking.

… I know it, too ..

I was saddened to hear that Gloria Steinem had died.

The weekend is ahead. I very much want to spend it painting. There’s also housekeeping chores to be done. Grocery shopping. Errands. The new SDR my beloved Traveling Partner got for me calls to me for my attention. My RC car wants to play. Life and love want my attention, too. The clock keeps ticking. Everything is a distraction from something else. Choose wisely.

I sit by the side of this rainy trail at daybreak. The changing colors of the morning sky, cloudy and gray mostly, distract me from the night as it passes, too.

… And I still want to paint…

What are you going to do about it?

I sit with my thoughts awhile. I breathe, exhale, and relax. Rain spatters my rain poncho. The clock ticks on. This is a finite mortal lifetime, and choices are necessary to narrow down the options some little bit.  So what’ll it be? I sigh to myself. I rub my aching hands.

I’m making plans for an autumn trip to the coast, to paint and celebrate the equinox. Remembering that intention stops me from fretting about the weekend at all. I like to plan ahead. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I notice the time and get to my feet. I’ve been sitting here for a little while and it’s time to begin – again. There’s a whole new day ahead. What will I do with it?

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, women, Words

Listening to the Rain Fall

September 3, 2026 //
0

As I stepped through the front doorway, I saw the wet pavement and smelled the scents of recent rain. I shrug it off happily; I’ll pick up a coffee on my way to the trailhead, in case I find myself waiting for a break in the rain.

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

Good call. The rain began to fall as I got into the car. It’s still falling as I pulled into the parking lot. It’s still falling now. I’m okay with it. I like the rain. I sit with my coffee, contentedly waiting for a break in the rain, sun roof cracked open to let in the fresh scent of rainfall and petrichor. I enjoy the sound of rain falling on the car.

I breathe, exhale, and relax, taking time with meditation, letting the rain fall without stress or concern. Beyond the rain, I hear distant HVAC. I am serene and unbothered. Feels like a good start to the day.

…It keeps raining…

I sigh to myself. If it’s going to rain like this indefinitely – and maybe it will – I’m going to want my rain gear where I can get to it more easily. This morning it is neatly packed away in my gear bin, in the back of the car (SUV), and in the time it will take to pull it out and put it on, I’ll be soaked. The break in the rain I’m looking for only needs to be long enough to find and put on my rain poncho.

… I think about that rain poncho for a moment. It’s the same cheap IKEA rain poncho I’ve kept stuffed with my gear since… 2014? How is that thing even still water resistant? I remind myself to check it carefully and be certain of its continued usefulness, and maybe replace it…

Nothing lasts forever, least of all these finite mortal lives. I sigh to myself and decide to get on with it, in spite of the rain. It’s Oregon, and fall is almost here, it’s going to rain… maybe a lot. I mentally walk through the steps of getting my rain poncho out of my gear bin. It’s raining pretty hard right now. I put my headlamp on and let it hang from my neck. It’s still dark. It stays dark later each morning by some small amount. I reach behind me grateful that I’d flung my fleece there yesterday morning. Handy. It will keep some of the rain off while I dig around in the back of the car. As if on cue, it begins to rain harder.

Out of curiosity, I look at the wildfire map. On the map it looks like the entire west coast is on fire, with a small thin slice along the western edge untouched. I feel grateful to live within that slice of my state that is not on fire. I’m grateful for the rain, too. I hope it drenches the land and quenches the fires.

…Of course. I check the weather radar map showing the precipitation. Looks like it’s only raining over the areas that are not on fire. Cosmic humor isn’t reliably amusing to mere mortals.

I sigh to myself. I’ve stalled long enough, and it’s time to begin. Again.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, women, Words
« Older Entries