Here it is Monday, again. I’ll admit, my enthusiasm is seriously limited by the pain I’m in. It is what it is, I guess.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I re-read the article my Traveling Partner shared with me, yesterday and think about it as I walk. It’s a cold morning, but not freezing. Today I remembered to dress warmly. I walk down the trail in the darkness, thinking my thoughts.
The article my beloved shared with me includes some excellent tips for clear communication, practices that (when practiced) really work:
Active Listening: Practice active listening by putting your own opinions aside and genuinely trying to understand the other person’s perspective. Reflecting back on their thoughts and feelings can help establish a sense of empathy and build rapport.
Empathy and Validation: Recognize and validate the emotions and concerns expressed by the other person. Acknowledging their experiences, even if you disagree with their viewpoints, can create a more receptive atmosphere for any discussion.
Calm and Respectful Tone: Maintaining a calm and respectful tone and avoiding personal attacks or derogatory language can make a huge difference. By keeping emotions in check, you can foster a more constructive dialogue and prevent further escalation.
Find Common Ground: Look for shared values, objectives, or aspirations that might serve as a foundation for getting to a common ground. Highlighting areas of agreement can help bridge the gap between differing perspectives.
Ask Open-Ended Questions: Encourage deeper reflection and exploration by asking about things that invite the other person to speak out their thoughts. This approach can promote self-reflection and potentially lead to a more nuanced understanding.
Good tips. Profoundly good, and like chess, the basics are so basic one might miss how difficult it might be to master. It is necessary to do the verbs. Worth the work that goes into it. Barring some clinical condition that might get in the way, this is a fantastic starting point for close connected communication and conflict resolution. I walk thinking about change.
This morning my head aches. My arthritis is giving me grief, too, in that very specific way that I associate with cold mornings. It seems worst in my thumbs, and my neck, places where it is a more recent development. I walk briskly this morning in spite of pain. It’s too chilly to stroll.
I get to my halfway point fairly quickly and stop, write a few words, reflect on the challenges of the weekend (and the moments of joy), and meditate under the stars. What peculiar mortal lives these are, and so brief…
Untitled pastel, 2026
I think I’d like to spend more time in my studio this week. I have a lot on my mind, and some of it I just don’t have words for. I sigh to myself, rubbing my hands together briskly in the cold. It’s time to begin again.
Yesterday’s walk was rainy. This morning it is cold. 35F/1.6C – it may not be freezing cold, quite yet, but it is certainly cold enough that my heavy sweater was a good choice.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I reached the trailhead at the nature park without really taking note of the drive to get here. I slept poorly last night, awaked at intervals by my Traveling Partner, who was having a difficult night himself. I woke with effort and dragged myself through my morning routine. So far, so good.
It’s a strange chilly autumn morning. There is a moderately dense fog in the low spots of the marsh and adjacent farm fields. The night sky overhead head is clear and starry. In the minutes during which I sat quietly observing the night sky, trying to ascertain whether that bright object that wasn’t there moments ago is a star, a planet, or a satellite, a stranger approaches my car in the darkness and calls to me. “Ma’am, Ma’am? Do you have any water?”
The object in the sky? A plane. The stranger? A potential threat. What the hell is he doing out along the highway, walking, on a near freezing morning before dawn? I’m definitely not getting out of my car. Through the closed and locked door I say “No”, quite firmly. He walks away slowly toward a second car parked here, some distance ahead of me. I hear him ask the driver for water. She asks what the hell he’s doing out on the highway walking at this hour. He laughs a weird wild cackle. To my surprise, the driver gets out of her car and fetches a bottle of water for the stranger, then gets back in her car. The stranger loiters a few minutes trying to make further conversation before eventually walking away, back to the highway.
The strange unsettling interaction changes my plan. I’ll wait for daybreak before I start down the trail this morning. Just seems safer, and after the night I had, I don’t think I should count on luck as a safety plan.
Yesterday was pretty pleasant, generally. I spent considerable time hanging out with my Traveling Partner. Got my laundry mostly done. Spent a little time in my studio. I’m pleased with the new piece.
“Autumn Afternoon” 11″ x 14″ 2026
I’m getting a lot of satisfaction and emotional value out of these shorter interludes in the studio. I am guessing the days of spending many hours at my easel, or painting down on the floor or on some tabletop, are probably over. I can’t easily sustain one single seated position for so long and the arthritis developing in my thumbs is quite another cruel twist of aging. This piece is my largest pastel to date, though, and in that sense it is fully equivalent to having painted four new pieces. I’m okay with that. The hint of gold dust gently brushed into the piece makes me smile when a glint or glimmer catches my eye. It’s enough.
I doze off in the warmth of the car briefly. When I wake the other car is gone. I write a bit. Meditate. I wait for daybreak, that’ll be soon now. Then I’ll begin again.
Yesterday’s sunrise was beautiful. Maybe I’ll paint that sky this weekend.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Every sunrise a new beginning.
I spent yesterday taking (Rx) drugs and wracked with pain, mired in irritability, working, and listening to Bauhaus, NIN, and The Stooges. Not exactly cheerful stuff, but infused with a dark moody energy that just seemed to fit. I was even wearing black, though the choice was unintentional.
… This morning is better, so far…
I enjoyed a quiet evening with my Traveling Partner, though I still don’t understand why he took a chance on my company last night; I wasn’t in a good place at all. We both made the necessary effort and it was a relaxed, generally pleasant evening.
This morning? New day, new beginning. I walk the familiar trail in the familiar darkness, grateful it is largely an external experience of circumstances – it’s still too early, not yet daybreak. Nothing like yesterday, when the darkness seemed to ooze from my being. I breathe in the mild autumn air. We haven’t yet had our first frost.
I breathe, exhale, relax. I meditate under the stars. It’s beautiful. I hear something loud, not too far away. The sound of impact, of things breaking, and a short time later, sirens. Someone else is having a bad morning today. Every one of us will, eventually. Very human. Our results may vary, whatever our circumstances or our practices.
“Maybe a shorter walk in the morning?” my beloved had suggested to me. It was a good idea. I sit with my thoughts another minute or two. Self-reflection is a useful tool for gaining perspective.
The sky takes on a hint of blue, and I stretch a gaze at the few stars I can still see. Short work day, and an appointment with a specialist later about this fucking headache, then the weekend. I hope to spend a substantial portion of it in the studio. I’ve got a playlist ready…
… I get to my feet, and hit play, before I walk on. “….Bela Lugosi is dead…” And it’s time to begin. Again.
My homecoming was lovely, although I arrived in what turned out to be the middle of my Traveling Partner’s work day. I did my best to stay out of that, and to respect his work day.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I’m still thinking over experiences and lessons learned from my coastal getaway. Sometimes the processing takes more time than the lived experience. The thoughts come in waves, glimmering with the reflected light of many little fragments and impressions, the way the afternoon sunshine sparkles on the rippled surface of the sea.
It’s a metaphor.
There’s time for all that. I yawn as the sunrise begins to develop color. I drink in the autumn air on the edge of the marsh. A little chime goes off on my phone, reminding me to take morning meds. I stupidly attempt this simple feat without water, and choke on a tiny dry tablet that wants to stick dangerously near my airway. I cough several times, hard, and get relief, but now there’s a spot in my throat that just feels wrong, somehow. Annoying.
Like a moment on fire.
As I sit watching the sky, it lights up in hues of pink, magenta, lavender, and raspberry. So beautiful! No picture would really do this justice, and if I painted it just as it is, I feel certain it would be criticized for lack of realism. It’s quite fantastic and splendid, and I feel fortunate to see it. Wow.
I breathe, exhale, and relax, and think about the day ahead. He has appointments. I have an errand to run. Later, we’ll catch up with each other at home. He proposes we do something together. I agree that sounds nice. No idea what that will mean when we get there… but I’m looking forward to it. It’s easy to forget that today is a work day. I’m glad I took it off, instead of immediately diving back into work!
I sit with my thoughts and this beautiful sunrise. Soon enough it will be time to begin again.
I dance around the room on stiff legs, feeling the sore muscles of a good weekend of painting, and starting the packing. It’s a different playlist this morning, different songs, and a different path – back to life, back to reality. Four new paintings – not a bad weekend of painting. I’m pleased with the work. The coffee in the room isn’t terrible this morning, either – it’s almost good. It’s definitely coffee.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Home this morning, later. Each time I pass the new work as I move between tasks, I feel “lifted”. I feel restored and recharged and satisfied. It’s not the satisfaction of cheesecake, or even of good coffee. It isn’t the satisfaction of good sex. It seems very much it’s own thing, most closely similar to the satisfaction of “coming up for air” after reading a really great book… only… I “wrote the book”, too. I only achieve this feeling from painting, and occasionally from writing (poetry, generally, when that happens). Is it about creating – or expressing? I’m not sure. Maybe answering that riddle will “break the spell”?
One measure of satisfaction.
I sigh to myself happily. Oh definitely actually happy; it is a wonderful feeling, however fleeting. It is no wonder people chase this emotion (although that’s no way to achieve it). I sip my coffee and reflect on the weekend. It has had some lovely high points.
Serendipity and timing; getting that lucky shot isn’t something to plan.
I still can’t quite believe I slept in so effortlessly, every morning, waking to the sound of gulls and morning sunshine, or the alarm for my morning medication, or some other “not early” event. It was delightful. I was unsurprised and did not resist when I woke at my usual time this morning, well ahead of the sun. I got up, showered, dressed, and got a walk in, down on the beach in the darkness (with my headlamp on). The tide was out, and the broad expanse of firm beach let me get a good mile or so of walking before my coffee. The resumed routines click into place like dominoes made of comfort and familiarity.
I’m out of coffee, and don’t feel like upsetting my tummy with black tea. I decide to walk down to the closest cafe, which makes an excellent cup of coffee, and maybe a breakfast sandwich? I give that some thought, staring out the open balcony door at the misty foggy morning beyond the hotel. A good day to return home, I think to myself, lacing up my boots. I gather a couple packed items already ready for loading into the car; if I take them down with me now, it’ll feel less like hustling later.
Foggy misty morning. Time to go home.
Back with coffee, and a small fresh almond croissant – I don’t think I’d have believed these were made in-house if I hadn’t seen her rolling out layers of pastry dough yesterday afternoon, and seen them pulled from the oven this morning. The pleasing, somewhat grainy coarseness of the marzipan suggests that, too, was made right there. It’s a treat, and I savor it with my coffee and watch sea gulls on invisible air currents watching me, in case I might decide to share.
It is clear this pigeon considers this balcony “theirs”.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. A wee bite of breakfast and a good cup of coffee help get me going for the day, for real. There’s packing yet to do, and maybe I have time to paint just one more piece… I think about it and sip my coffee. I remind myself that I don’t need to be here, to paint; my studio is well-equipped for it. I didn’t even come here for inspiration – I brought an ample supply with me. I simply needed a bit of a break, and some solo time. I could have come here for inspiration – and surely would have found it – but that was not the need being addressed this time. I needed time in my own head, uninterrupted, focused, creative time spent immersed in the processes to do with painting. One challenge my Traveling Partner and I share is my apnea; I’m as prone to sometimes just not breathing when I’m awake, as I am when I sleep. It’s been that way for some unknown measure of time, and while the CPAP machine is a great solution for sleepapnea, it’s not particularly well-suited to daytime hours. The result is that I sometimes stop breathing while I’m deeply engaged in painting (or thinking, or reading), and as my SpO2 level drops and my body begins to do what bodies do when someone isn’t breathing, the signs of physical stress (unnoticed by me, often), get to my Traveling Partner and cause him stress, too. We are social mammals. We’re made to detect stress in “the herd”.
[Note: I’m not a doctor, nor am I a biologist, nor scientist armed with rigorous research, just a human being, being human, and noticing some things – don’t make important life decisions based on what some blogger said!]
The result of me not breathing goes beyond the eventual stress it will also cause to my beloved, himself; he will seek me out, interrupt whatever I am doing, and remind me to breathe. He’s not being mean or undermining my focus deliberately for some ill purpose, he’s taking care of me (and himself). It is also an interruption, and it does mess with my creative headspace, and that can make it hard to paint and enjoy the experience. (So, um, breathe, bitch, jeez.) Staying “too aware” of my breathing can also undermine my creative focus. It is a difficult path to follow. …But this fragile vessel does need oxygen. That’s pretty much non-negotiable. I smile to myself, grateful to have a partner who really does care whether I live or die. It’s a nice feeling to be loved.
I look over the new work again, before gently packing it for the trip home. This is always a process I face with a hint of concern, working in pastels. The work is relatively fragile, especially compared to the highly durable nature of acrylic work. I worried it will become smudged or scraped, or bent, or damaged in some way before I can place it somewhere carefully until it is framed. Oh, not worried enough to wreck a lovely morning, but there in the back of my mind is always that bit of concern. I know to work with care, when I pack them.
I sip my coffee contentedly. Gratefully. It’s been a splendid break. I think I found some shards and lost bits of myself over the course of these few days. Handy, and also worth further reflection. A stripe of blue sky tears the dense gray clouds with a bit of color. Pretty. A good time to begin again, I suppose…
