Archives for category: inspiration

Yesterday was… complicated. A busy, vexing work day kept me at it much later than usual. Rare for me. The afternoon’s timing was thrown off by what seemed like a very poorly timed manicure appointment, when the day had come. The evening was mostly pleasant, but neither my Traveling Partner nor I were great company. I retired early, slept deeply, and woke to a new day.

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

I started down the trail just as daybreak started to become sunrise.

A new perspective, a new chance to begin,  again.

The sunrise got a beautiful start. I took a moment to watch the colors develop, then started down the trail.

Mt Hood in the distance.

I walked with my thoughts, breathing in the scents of Spring. I’m still yawning. I keep walking.

Staying relaxed and mostly unbothered yesterday was helpful. “Routine chaos,  nothing to see here” mostly describes the day pretty well. “We become what we practice,” I think to myself with a smile. Perspective matters. I keep walking.

I walked on past my halfway point this morning, and stopped a bit further on. There is an unpaved “not a road” bit of an agricultural access road through the vineyard and today I stopped there, to write and watch the sun rise. I’ll take that path through the vineyard (is there a precise word for the opposite of a “shortcut”? this path makes the walk slightly longer) and come out on the far side, which is between the main access road into the air museum grounds and the highway. Walking back towards the car will be an interesting difference (I mean, for some values of interesting).

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate. I write. Good morning for it. I get to my feet to begin again. I don’t know what today holds, and I’m okay with that uncertainty. It’s a lovely moment in an all too brief mortal lifetime, and it is enough.

I was on the trail just at daybreak. I was up an hour early. In the late Spring, and summer, months it hardly matters; I’ll have daylight for my walk, which beats walking in the dark. Why walk in the dark at all then? Because my morning walk is a practice, for me. It helps start my day gently, with some calm-building exercise and a bit of time for meditation before another work day begins. It works for me.

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

The difference between a “practice” and just some thing I happen to do or try is that a practice has some ongoing specific purpose (otherwise it might be better described as a “ritual”) and recurs with some fixed cadence in a “no end in sight” sort of way. “Practice” suggests continuation of effort, a progression, an active doing. I’m not generally going for “mastery”; the practice itself is the point, however skilled I may (or may not) become.

Meditation is a practice. Walking in the morning before work is a practice. Using a “panic checklist” to ground myself in the midst of a panic attack is a practice. Taking time for self-reflection and writing each day is a practice. A lot of things we do in life could potentially be a practice. In my own use of the term, I am explicitly referring to the things I reliably do to support good mental and emotional health (and to a lesser degree physical health). Most of my practices are things I do every day, with few exceptions. Some practices are things I do when specific conditions are met, or a particular need arises.

An activity of some kind is more likely to be a “practice”, to my own way of thinking, when it is done a specific way for a specific purpose. For example, my morning walk; it is a meditation practice as much as anything to do with fitness, so I walk with a relaxed comfortably brisk pace, and without distractions (no music, no companion, no talking) awake, alert, and aware of my surroundings. I walk, being present and mindful. Oh, sure, some days the pace is difficult, and perhaps I am slowed by disability. Human. Sometimes I walk distracted by my thoughts and rather “far away”, it happens. Very human. Some mornings pings from my Traveling Partner cause me to pause along the way, or perhaps I keep stopping to take pictures. That’s another reason it’s a practice; I’m always working at getting it right. Failure is not only an option, it’s pretty fucking common and very very human. (We learn more from our failures than from our successes.)

Walking as a practice is about steps – one after another after another down the trail, a metaphor for life and living. Meditation as a practice is about discipline, consistency, and creating resilience. Each practice has a point, a purpose, and generally a few fairly simple steps. The apparent simplicity is not an indication of how much effort may be required or whether the practice will be simple to adopt or maintain. I keep wanting to get a healthy strength training practice going. I seem quite good at failing to do so. 😆 Also very human.

Viewing various health supporting activities as practices lets me grow with my learning over time without feeling pressure to perform at some particular level or demonstrate some kind of mastery; I am free to be a student, a learner… a practitioner. Very freeing, and in that freedom I find ease, and value, and joy. Are there more efficient walkers logging more miles on more difficult trails? I don’t doubt there are, but that doesn’t matter and is not relevant to me. Are there individuals who reach advanced states of consciousness or divine revelation through meditation far beyond any achievement of my own? Probably, sure. What’s that to me? It’s not a competition, at all. It’s a practice. I do mine for me. What any other individual is doing or achieving isn’t part of my experience.

I breathe, exhale, and relax – and get on to my meditation practice, after taking a few minutes to write and reflect, from the vantage point of this bench alongside the trail I favor most mornings. Practicing the practices that have proven to be helpful for me. We become what we practice. I sigh and think about that again. Practice. I’ve got a nice set of dumbbells at home, a weight bench, and a very good yoga mat. I’ve even got the time in the evening… a fitness practice suited to my years, and my abilities, is only one step away; the doing of the thing. There are verbs involved.

I sit with my thoughts awhile longer, mostly reflecting on the “why” of really committing to a strength training fitness practice. The improved strength and muscle tone will feel better, and movement will become easier. I may be able to improve my walking speed, and go further, faster, or walk more challenging trails. Improved fitness will likely mean improvements in my breathing and lung capacity. Strength training will improve my caloric burn rate, which may shed some pounds and improve my physical form aesthetically (I like the look of a fit, strong, healthy body). Improvements in movement, fitness, and strength have a really good chance of improving my sexual health – and although I don’t talk much about sex explicitly, I’m still interested, and sexually active (when I can overcome my disabilities). Anything that makes that easier is worth doing! So… strength training? Yes?

I think I’ve got myself talked into it, but practicing a practice isn’t about thinking about it. There are verbs involved. I’ll need to begin again. I get to my feet and look down the trail. It’s a beautiful Spring morning, very promising. I inhale the scents of Spring and exhale feeling content and encouraged. Where this path leads may not be certain – but the journey is the destination. That’s enough for an excellent beginning.

Why do I keep coming back to this place? Surely it isn’t just convenience, ritual, or nostalgia? (I mean… but it could be though…)

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

I think about it for a long while, maybe instead of the thoughts I may have thought brought me here. Too long, maybe, between chapters of “A Canticle for Leibowitz”, which I was finishing, and pages of “The Conspiracy Against The Human Race “, which I am only just beginning, both of which feel significant and well-timed. Cycles and patterns in life and living occur often in this mortal experience. I watch the waves of the ebb tide reach the shore, and return to cross and mingle with the next row coming in. It is late afternoon.

Waves against a rocky shore.

I consider the phenomenon of the double slit experiment, and of watching the ripples of water expanding out from a stone cast into the shallow water at the edge of my grandfather’s pier on Weems Creek on a summer morning. Interference patterns fascinate me endlessly. Interference is a subtle thing, natural and irresistible, and perhaps that is why I come to this place, to listen to sea breezes whisper truths that might escape my awareness in the busy-ness of life, as I contemplate the patterns in the waves as they reach the shore?

Sometimes I just need quiet and solitude – some time alone to “hear myself think”. I have been needing it so much lately, I guess, that any effort to do something else has been met with a feeling of profound discontent, and a sense of resisting what is needful, as if I were interfering with my own sense of purpose. What feels useful and right is to sit gazing out at the sea, or to relax with a coffee by the fire. My initial reluctance to fully yield to “wasting my time” on nothing more (or less) than my own thoughts quickly passed once I yielded to it without reservation (or interference).

I sit with my thoughts. That is, after all, what I come here for. What I came here for this time, too.

The medium brown strands of my hair fall in waves down my bosom. There’s not much gray. The auburn highlights sparkle where the afternoon sun reaches me through the window, hinting at red-headed-ness in my ancestry. One notable indulgence on this trip will be a long overdue haircut with a stylist I really like. I didn’t plan ahead, and I am grateful she was willing to make an appointment for me on a Sunday morning, just before I return home.

… Shit. I miss my Traveling Partner. The poignant feeling of loss and absence strikes me hard, abruptly. Yeah… I come here alone also to escape the subtle interference patterns of love, too. It’s a bit harder to focus on me when my heart is focused on my beloved. Here, for a couple of days, my thoughts are truly my own, entirely. At home, and this is not a criticism, my thoughts and the very fabric of my life is woven and intertwined with his. Every thread connects the two of us. My heart shifts gears now, from missing him to feeling incredibly loved. His love gives me ample room to step away, care for myself, and return more whole and more capable, and more able to partner with him in this life we share. That’s so beautiful…

I smile and set aside writing for some other moment, and return to my thoughts.

(Some time later)

My thoughts became, at some point, an unexpected nap listening to the waves through the open window. I woke, soon enough to think about some dinner and a bit more reading. I exchange welcome words with my beloved. He misses me. I am missing him too. Tomorrow is soon, and I’m looking forward to his embrace when I get home.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I sit in the evening light, watching the day dwindle away to night. Tomorrow I’ll begin again.

I am sipping a really terrible coffee, looking out over the ocean at low tide. Funny, I’m in the room right next to the room I had on my last visit here…but the view is diminished (one window instead of three side-by-side), and the coffee is terrible. My results vary. Yours will, too, most likely. It’s a very human experience.

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

Low tide, sunrise, western horizon.

I’m still drinking the coffee, as terrible as it is. I’ll go out for better, later, but for now this will do. I am still enjoying the view from this room. It’s beautiful. No complaints, and no need to journey elsewhere to see the sea. Surely, I’ll see more, and from other viewpoints, later today, but for now this is quite enough. This room is somehow smaller than the one next door (and no kitchenette, just a coffee machine and a mini-fridge). Doesn’t much matter; I’m not here about the amenities, I’m here to relax with my thoughts and reset myself, my thinking, and my approach to the day-to-day, hoping to come home feeling refreshed and energized, and somehow more myself than when I got here.

…Will that work? Maybe? It has before…

Here on the seashore I feel my Dear Friend’s presence and my Granny’s. Both women loved coastal places. Whenever I was low, talking with my Granny on the phone from some distant place, she would say “You should come to the shore, Sweetie, and take a rest from all that. It’s just noise in your head. Come listen to the birds, and feel the breeze on the marsh. We’ll take a drive into town and have crab cakes.” I’d often laugh, just feeling relieved to be heard. I couldn’t go as often as I would have liked, but on those occasions that I did, it saved me.

I sip my terrible cup of coffee, marveling at just how really awful it is. The morning sun begins to light up the distant clouds, high in the sky. Beautiful. A seagull stands on the bit of ground between the window and the straight drop to the beach, and looks into the window at me. The ocean is a sleek polished aluminum gray, breaking on the rocky beach in waves of white foam, shining with reflected light. I could sit at this window and watch this views for many uninterrupted hours – even with this gull standing there watching me, as if expecting I might toss some tasty morsel his way. It is windy today (yesterday, too), and it’s expected to be rainy, too. I don’t even mind. Storms make for dramatic skies, and rain means a good night’s sleep (for me).

I sigh to myself. This coffee is even worse once it’s begun to go cold. I chuckle to myself. It’s a good indication that it’s time to begin again, perhaps? The tide is as its lowest, and the tide pools here are something special. My clothes are already laid out. A walk on the beach, then a proper cup of coffee sounds like a lovely start to the day. I let go of my expectations; there is no sense in clinging to what I do not yet know. I already know that change is, and that my results may vary. I’m walking my own path, and that’s enough for this moment right here, now.

I finish this coffee, and think kisses at my Traveling Partner. He’s having his own experience – I hope it is a good one.

It is an ordinary morning, begun in the usual way, following a night of very sound and restful sleep. I woke feeling merry and grateful to have a comfortable bed and a partner with the thoughtfulness to adjust the thermostat when the weather changes.

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

All the way down the trail this morning, I thought about the weekend ahead. With my Traveling Partner’s encouragement, I am planning to take a couple days to rest (and maybe paint) on the coast. I’m rarely so last minute about such things, and I am delighted to have the opportunity, if I can make it work out. I walk with my thoughts, sifting through my recollections of various other similar short getaways. I have options. A rough plan begins to take shape… A short work day, a relaxed drive to the coast, an “early” check-in if I can get it, and an ocean view room from which to watch the sun set, sounds like a fine beginning. I sometimes surprise myself by being able to sleep in, at the coast. Is it the sound of the sea? The scent of the ocean breeze? I don’t know, really, but I’m happy to continue to study the phenomenon. 😆

I sit at my halfway point now, thinking about the weekend ahead. Painting or photography? Reading or writing? Meditation or beachcombing? Does it have to be either/or? I can mix and match. I grin thinking about times when I’ve packed for every possible option and found myself just napping, stargazing, and enjoying a bit of sightseeing instead of doing any of the things I had tried to prepare for. 😆 Human primates are weird.

… What do I really need most out of this time? I sit quietly reflecting on that…

What matters most? It’s a big question. I sit with that awhile. I decide to keep things simple, and open, and a very loose “plan” (so unlike me) and see where the journey takes me, for a change. Low effort, maximum rest. I’ve always got my sketchbox in the car, and my cellphone is more camera than phone in everyday use. I’ll bring a book and a change of clothes. It feels like enough. I’m only going for a day, framed by two nights.  It’s more about getting the restful quiet time than any agenda or itinerary. I’m not looking for an achievement.

I smile to myself, feeling easy. This feels somehow “settled” now. I shift gears to thinking about today. I remind myself to stop at the store on my way home from work. It’s not yet the weekend, and there’s today to be lived. I bring myself back to here, now, and draw in a deep breath of cool Spring air. Pretty morning. Cloudy skies but no rain, cool but not cold. I’m okay with this. I chuckle to myself; it wouldn’t change anything if I weren’t okay with it. Reality would just go on being real, at least with regard to the weather. The weather is not within my control.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s almost time to begin the day. I wonder briefly how many of you read the layers of meaning or look for the lessons or metaphors? I smile to myself, unconcerned, just curious. I get to my feet and turn towards the sun. It’s time to begin again.