I’m sitting on this rock, alongside the trail. It’s a Wednesday, but I’m off work, which is a nice change. I’m more or less “moved in to” my new phone, but as is often the case with such things (for me), there’s still a lot to do and quite a few small differences to learn. I’m okay with the process and I have my Traveling Partner’s help, and he’s very familiar with this operating system. I like the new phone better than the old one.
… The novelty is probably good for my brain, too…
Yesterday, just about as my energy was running out, my partner asked me gently and encouragingly “what are you going to do to take care of yourself, though?”. It was a good question. My answer was that I’d have a shower and maybe move into the new phone. Pretty low standard for self-care. lol
That question is bigger than one evening, isn’t it? With my partner being injured, I tend to run myself ragged taking care of him, the household, the day-to-day errands, and bringing in a paycheck (and health insurance) and there’s often very little left in a day “for me”. I’m not even bitching, just aware that I am pushing myself hard. I have these quiet mornings (and I am grateful), but I reliably fail to be as attentive to my needs as a human being as I am to the many other things I’ve got going on, that often seem more urgent, in the moment. So few hours in a day, and the clock is always ticking. I do need to figure this out.
A wildflower on the trail. A picture with a new camera.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I glance at my poor hands; they are a mess of small wounds from unnoticed near-constant picking and tearing at my cuticles. Pure stress. It’s very telling. Just weeks ago my hands were fine, and even well-manicured. My self-care is slipping. Human.
I take time for meditation, sitting here in the morning sunshine, at the halfway point on this walk. I carefully refrain from chewing on my fingers. It takes an act of will to remain mindful and aware. It’s a practice worth practicing. I definitely need the practice.
Another breath. Another moment. I know it is important to be kind to myself, and to take care of this fragile vessel. It also takes practice, and time I often don’t feel I have. It’s complicated. I can only do so much. It’s important to choose wisely. Artistic work is one way I take care of myself. I’m eager to make time for the new pastels.
… I’m feeling eager and inspired, and also a tiny bit hesitant; change is complicated…
… For now, it’s enough to sit in the sunshine on a familiar trail, feeling the soft Spring breeze tickle my skin, and smelling the scent of flowers. Soon enough it will be time to begin again.
I’m sipping coffee and taking a moment after my morning walk. I’ll head to work, next, but this quiet interlude is mine. I’m sitting quietly, looking out into the view beyond and contemplating how I might capture this view in acrylic, in watercolor, in oil, or in a wholly new medium for me – in pastels.
Light and shadow, and an ordinary view.
I am content to sit here with my thoughts, even for hours. This is a pleasant moment.
I’ve tidied up my studio such that I can actually make use of it. Along the way I found an old cigar box with an unexpected treasure within – two small sets of pastels, an assortment of neon colors and an assortment of iridescent colors, looking very much unused since whenever they were purchased. I don’t recall buying them. The shoebox itself is one that one of my parents had used to send me something… sometime around 1995? Older? Old, for sure.
A fun surprise.
I continue to feel inspired by the thought of exploring a new medium, artistically. I picked up a selection of good quality pastels at the local art store, and some appropriate paper, and ordered some woodless colored pencils and pastel pencils. A small price to pay for the joy and growth yet to come.
Colors. Joy in a box.
For a moment, I feel impatient to begin, then chuckle at my human foolishness, because I have already begun! This moment, right here, now, is part of the experience. I smile and breathe it in. Inspiration. Joy. Enthusiasm. Eagerness. Delight. Wonder. It’s quite delicious and I am grateful to enjoy this moment.
I take time to really savor this pleasant moment, and to really “fill my cup” with this quiet joy.
The sun continues to rise. The clock continues to tick. It’s already time to begin again. I’m ready.
I’m relaxing after my walk, wondering if it may continue to rain today. It looks like it might. I’m thinking about the weekend, mostly quite a nice one, spent in the good company of my Traveling Partner. Father’s Day was Sunday, and I even managed to surprise him with a gift (that he also liked).
The weekend was interesting in another way. Chosen changes. Change is, and no amount of running from it (or insisting on standing still) will change that. Sometimes what makes the most sense is to choose change. It’s a useful way of guiding my journey in life.
Here’s an example; I am frankly pretty “over” my current smartphone. It’s an older one, still quite functional but becoming irritatingly “uncooperative” and vexing with each new update by my carrier or the manufacturer. (I get tired of having to go back and turn off a bunch of bullshit and bloatware every time there’s an update, too.) My Traveling Partner pointed out I’m perhaps overdue to move on to a newer (and not carrier-locked) device.
My current smartphone is “only” 5 years old… but that’s also pre-pandemic, 4 employers, and two addresses ago. lol In terms of technology, that’s a long time. We shopped together, talked about the options, and I picked out a replacement. It’ll arrive in a few days and then I can “move out” of this phone that is vexing me so often and move on to being vexed differently with a new one. lol I’m grateful to have my Traveling Partner’s expertise and help with this one; it’s the sort of change that really fucks with me in a multitude of little ways.
Another example of choosing change with self-care and personal growth in mind? Artistically I have been feeling a bit stalled and struggling to “find my voice” after losing my Dear Friend this year. I didn’t have an understanding of how grief would affect me creatively (this time), nor did I anticipate the ways my Traveling Partner’s injury might affect my comfort with being “distracted by” the desire to paint. I find myself unable to begin new work, too aware that he may need my help any time (acrylic paint dries quickly and I tend to “work wet”). Unable to finish old work, because it brings to mind interrupted conversations with my Dear Friend that now can never be resumed.
I just can’t get going “as things are”… and the more I thought about it, the more significant the medium I tend to favor seemed to be. I’ve worked primarily in acrylics for about 20 years. What if I could work slower… oil paints? No, too slow. Watercolor?Maybe…but… too wet? What if I could work slower without “working wet” at all…? Something I could easily step away from and come back to… I found myself also considering size. I generally work with canvases that are large-ish… not huge, but often “over mantelpiece” or “behind the couch” sizes… I had begun to work much smaller in recent years (a combination of convenience and physical limitations). I never replaced my big easel when it finally failed me. I rarely used it anymore. Large work on paper never suited me…but I started as a watercolor artist, working on paper, as a teenager. Is it time to scale back and return to older ways? I feel hungry for something new.
Continuing to reflect on what I’ve been doing artistically, what has inspired me recently, and what is most physically comfortable at this stage in my life, I found myself considering a big change… a change of medium. (That’s a bigger deal than I know how to communicate, and will come with a potentially very steep learning curve.) Pastels. That’s the “big reveal”, I’m planning to try pastels, and may return to working exclusively on paper (less storage space needed for completed work, too). It’s an exciting thing to contemplate.
I find myself in an interestingly “in between moment”, standing poised between who I’ve been and who I may become, at least artistically. It’s less a crossroad in life than a sharp bend in the path in front of me, beyond which I can’t at all see what is ahead. I’m okay with the uncertainty and the unknowns. I’m excited and eager to move forward, to move on, and to grow with new experiences and new knowledge. This change, particularly, percolates through my consciousness in an interesting way. I think of a snake shedding her skin. It’s a good metaphor for choosing change and the growth that can come of it.
…Pastels…? I would be more easily able to do plein air work when I go camping… less to carry, more compact, easier to clean up… I sit with my thoughts awhile… The future is filled with potential.
I think about all the various artistic mediums I’ve tried, all the techniques, and the tools… I think about what worked for me, and why, and where I was in life for each of those things… I think, too, about practices more generally, and what has worked, and how much it has mattered to simply “try things out” to learn what really does work best for me. It’s an interesting journey.
There are new steps to take, and new skills to learn. There are new practices to practice, and old chaos to tidy up. There is old baggage to set aside, and old pain to heal. It’s a journey. A process. Incremental change over time doesn’t have to be all happenstance and wandering; I can choose change. I can choose my path, and choose my opportunity. I can choose to begin again.
Well, here it is… my birthday. 61. I’ve made it another year! Well done, me. lol
…I’m glad I’ve made it this far…
At birth, my cohort life expectancy was 73.4 years, although my familial longevity hints at my potential to be around much longer. (I’ve also got family members whose lives were much shorter… It definitely matters to take care of one’s health and avoid high risk activities.) My individual circumstances being what they have been, I wasn’t confident I’d get this far (in spite of my aspirational notion that I would like to see 2083…).
…I’m glad to be here…
No elaborate plans for the day, aside from quietly celebrating my survival thus far, and spending the day more or less doing what I’d like. I took the day off. My Traveling Partner is still on the injured list, so definitely available to enjoy the day with me, and also needing me to be available to help out and provide care. Managing an intimate connected balance being present for each other will probably guide the day. How else? We’re in this together.
…Maybe takeout from the French restaurant in town for dinner?..
I watch the sun rise from a local trail, walking with my thoughts, pausing to sit in the sunshine and write, before heading back to the car. I’ve survived 61 years of sometimes hard living and considerable trauma… but also joy, love, wonder, happiness, and an adequate measure of prosperity and success sufficient to see the here and now of my life become mostly pretty good. I’m loved. It’s a lovely day. Pretty good one for a birthday, for sure.
I think about the years to come… how many more, I wonder? 15? 20? 35? I walk along considering what sorts of things I can (or must) do to see the other side of 100 with my faculties and abilities intact. 40 more years of life as it is now would be pretty fucking splendid…
…Change is, though, and I have no idea what the future holds…
…It’d be pretty cool to make it to 120, I think, and to see how the world has changed…
I sigh, exhaling a deeply drawn breath of fresh meadow-sweet air. It’s time to begin again… Another year of practices. Another year of putting miles on these boots. Another year of living. It’s worth celebrating.
As I left the house for my walk this morning, the scent of the Spring garden filled my senses. It was just barely daybreak. I could smell the roses, mostly, and hints of other flowers – the thyme is blooming, and some of the salad greens are bolting. Their wee delicate flowers are not particularly numerous, but they do have a lovely delicate fragrance that mingles with the scent of roses in the wedge where the front of the house meets the side of the garage. I love that spot, and often simply stand or sit there, breathing in the scents of the flowers in my garden. Later, when it is warmer, the sunshine will bring out the savory spicy scent of the curry bush. Delicious.
“Baby Love”, a favorite rose, a gift from my Traveling Partner the year we moved in together (14 years ago).
When I returned home, the scent of roses, fresh mown lawns, and spring breezes greeted me. I smiled at the roses blooming along the walk. The theme of my garden is “love and memory”, and I’ve tried to select the roses based on two criteria; will they do well in my climate, and are they a good fit based on their name (and to a lesser degree I consider their appearance, growth habit, and scent). Each rose in my garden has its own character. Some are related to each other. Some are apparently incredibly tasty (to the deer that wander through), others are less so. Some are quite thorny, though I’ve tended to avoid that painful challenge mostly. Nearly all of them are very fragrant.
“Baltimore Belle” trails lazily in her place by the walk, fragrant and lovely, she was planted just last year – one of my newest roses.
Any time I am in my garden, I find my thoughts wandering to love, and fond memories of friends, loves, and life with my Traveling Partner. It’s a lovely way to step away from the routine, and one of the most delightful advantages of working from home; I can take my break in the garden.
“Alchymist” blooms on the other side of the stepping stones into the garden, along the walk. Lovely and fragrant, bred from a wild-rose cross.
Every visit to the garden is a brief moment of rest, even on the days when I’m in the garden laboring over this or that (usually pulling weeds, of which there often seem many! lol). When I was a kid, gardening seemed to me rather more like “labor” than “rest” pretty reliably, and I faced my share of that work with considerable reluctance and some resentment – I could be playing! Wandering! Reading! Funny how my love of my garden developed in adulthood – and before I even had a “real garden”, still limited to plants in pots on rental balconies or patios. I smile, thinking about my very first roses – they were already in the landscape of the first home I ever owned, and I frankly tried to kill them (unsuccessfully). I was so impressed with their robust resilience, they were ever after a metaphor (for me) of beauty and survival and strength. I have, since then, always owned roses. Some in pots traveled with me over decades of living. When we moved in here, my oldest rose, with me longest, was Nozomi – which I’d had with me since 1993.
“Nozomi”, undisturbed by the neighborhood deer – likely due to her terrifying thorns!
My garden-as-a-metaphor delights my heart as well as my senses. The three roses planted in memory of my recently departed Dear Friend are unlikely to bloom this year. I plant only roses that are on their own roots (no grafted roses), and they are often quite “young” when they are planted. I try to give them a good start on building a strong root system, and I sometimes pinch off buds to prevent flowering the first year. That hasn’t been necessary for these three – they are not yet trying to bloom. I’m eager to see how they do as they mature. So far, “Celestial Night”, “Rainbow Happy Trails”, and “Whimsy” are strong and lush. I selected them with my Dear Friend in mind, to always remind me of her humor, her joy, and how she inspired me to live life eagerly and joyfully. She taught me much, and loved me dearly. I miss her greatly, but in the garden we are together, again, at least in spirit.
“Sweet Chariot”, a favorite bred by Ralph Moore.
When I first moved to California, many years ago and quite early in my relationship with roses, I had the good fortune to meet Ralph Moore in person, at his rose nursery in Visalia. He taught me a lot about miniature roses, and as I was still living in rentals at that time this was useful knowledge; minis fit in pots much more easily than larger climbers, vast sprawling ramblers, or large old garden roses. One of my first minis was “Sweet Chariot”, although the one in my garden now is not the one I originally purchased, which I rather foolishly planted in the ground in a community garden plot. It became so well-grown in that spot I couldn’t repot it at all, and I left it thriving there. It was some years after Ralph Moore’s death before I was able to locate a nursery that had Sweet Chariot for sale – but it was one I sought eagerly for all those years.
…There are metaphors buried in these details…
I sip my coffee and think about the garden, the roses, love, and memory. There are far worse ways to spend my time. In the garden, I’m often able to “let things go” and “catch up with myself” in a way I sometimes find difficult to do otherwise. Other times, the garden is simply the pure joy of being, in an uncomplicated way, surrounded by flowers, herbs, and veggies, listening to the breeze and the chirps of curious robins checking things out and looking for a tasty bite. Sure, I could find these experiences elsewhere – we find or make our own happy places – this just happens to be my way. My path. My garden.
A bee on the flowering top of an allium in the veggie garden.
…Where do you find your joy?..
There’s work to do in the garden (there always is). Weeds to pull. Bolting greens to pinch back. Peas to harvest for supper, later. Roses to deadhead, prune, and train. Tender herbs to pick and dry in the sunshine. Flowers to admire. It’s not a free ride, this sort of joy – it takes care and time and attention to cultivate a beautiful productive garden. There are choices to be made – what varieties? What vegetables to plant, and when? Does this or that spot need some kind of … object? A gazing ball? A wind chime? What will add a moment of wonder? What will feed the bees and butterflies?
I find the garden a useful metaphor. There are verbs involved. There are opportunities to succeed, to fail, and to begin again. It’s not about perfection so much as sufficiency, beauty, and balance. There are aesthetic concerns, and also practical concerns. There is learning what is “enough” and what is more than I can manage on my own. There is learning to ask for help, and becoming more self-sufficient through practice. There is love, and there is memory – and it’s all in my garden.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a lovely day to be in the garden. It’s a lovely day to begin again.
Evening Light 