It is morning. A new day is beginning. I’m sipping my coffee. I flipped through the disappointing headlines and quickly move on; there’s nothing to see there, not really, and I don’t care to waste my time being pointlessly agitated by bullshit. I can treat myself better than that, so I do. I sit for a moment, quietly. The only sounds I hear are the persistent zing of my tinnitus and the soft wush of the ventilation system; all background, no features. Beyond the window, dawn takes shape, soft white clouds against the deep blue gray of the sky before sunrise. It’s one moment, of many.
Breathe, exhale, relax – and tend the garden of your heart with care.
I sit with my thoughts awhile, mostly thinking about the garden, where my Traveling Partner and I, along with the Anxious Adventurer, spent a good portion of the evening yesterday. My thoughts move on to an appointment, later, and later still an errand I’ll run for my beloved. I sigh quietly as a new day unfolds. The sky has become a beautiful azure blue. It’s already time to begin again.
The work week finally ended. I got home tired and uninspired about home cooking, late in the afternoon. I wasn’t hungry, just thirsty and fatigued. My Traveling Partner had put in a full day in his shop machining parts to upgrade the lathe. He had overlooked having lunch. I made him a hearty sandwich and then put my feet up for a little while, taking the break I should have taken earlier in the day.
I never did feel like cooking a proper meal, and never had much of an appetite. I ordered pizza, instead of fussing. I did remember, at some point, that my beloved had asked me if I’d make banana bread with the last two bananas, so I did that. It turned out splendidly well. I used the Better Homes & Gardens recipe, with a bit more salt than it calls for, and being generous with the walnuts. I chuckled to myself about how often it has turned out that my Dad’s “secret family recipes” have been from that cookbook. It was definitely worth the effort. The pizza was good, too. It was a simple, quiet evening.
Simple joy.
This morning I woke from a sound sleep feeling rested, got up and started the morning. I’m sitting at the trailhead, waiting for enough daylight to see the trail on this rainy, muddy, morning and hoping for a break in the rain. The dense clouds overhead seem to tear themselves apart, a jagged gap opening to reveal the blue-gray sky of daybreak beyond. I lace up my boots.
I’m grateful for the simple joys in life. I’m grateful for these quiet morning moments of solitude and reflection. I’ve got a few days off work coming up, and I’m grateful for that too. I’m tired, and I am finding it harder these days to manage my pain; a couple days of leisure and creative time will do me good. I run my fingers through my hair, enjoying the softness of it, and watch the clouds moving away toward the horizon. No colorful sunrise this morning, but many beautiful shades of blue and gray and lovely soft shadows. I’m content with the morning as it is. It’s enough. The pain is a small detail, inconsequential compared to the beauty of the morning, just a thing to be endured.
Finding joy in a moment.
A soft rain starts and stops, again and again. That won’t stop me, either. Like the pain, it is a small detail; I grab my rain poncho from my gear tote.
I sit awhile longer with my thoughts, savoring the moment before I begin again.
Grief has its own time, its way of guiding us down a path. It’s not always obvious that the way out is through. Yesterday I took time to really grieve the loss of my Dear Friend, with my whole heart and nothing else on my mind. I needed that. Somewhere along the way I found my peace with it. I still miss her, sure, I always will. That’s appropriate. She was a good friend and our friendship endured almost thirty years of growth and change and even the break-up of my relationship with her first born.
The crocuses have begun to bloom.
I got home at a decent hour. Made my Traveling Partner a late lunch. Got a little gardening done. Evening came and dinner was a pleasant family affair, just the three of us, nothing fancy. My beloved had been busy with something in the shop that clearly had his attention. It’s easy to respect that; I’m delighted to see him on his feet and productive again.
As evening closed in on bedtime, my beloved came to me with a gift. A beautiful lithophane of a wild rose, framed in a light-box, originally (long ago) planned to be a gift for my Dear Friend. It was one of the first CNC projects started in my Traveling Partner’s shop, but had proved to be more complicated than originally expected as designed, and then circumstances pushed it to the side, unfinished. Time passed. Too much time passed, the opportunity to give the gift was lost.
I loved the lithophane more as a thing he was making than the potential gift it represented. I had taken the photo, a favorite picture of a rose. The interest in lithophanes as an art form was mine, too. The potential to be a gift was a way to see the thing done; it felt too complicated and frivolous to just ask for such a thing. So much work involved. Here it was, in his hands, finished, his gift to me to help heal my heart, a fitting moment of closure to a year of grief, this gift that began as an idea of a gift for a dear friend, becoming a gift for me. A demonstration of my Partner’s enduring love. I hadn’t expected it. I wept tears of joy and love and the day felt complete in a way I hadn’t expected it could.
I know my partner felt his own grief and regret that he’d never finished the lithophane, most particularly that he hadn’t finished it in time to give it to my Dear Friend. She’d have loved it, I’m sure; she loved every gift I gave her, and especially those that he had made for her. It would have joined the happy clutter of the many little things she didn’t have room for, along with paintings I’d given her over the years (which have now come back to me). I hope my beloved found his own peace in finishing the lithophane. I know I’ll cherish it always.
I know just where I’ll put it.
Grief has its own way, and follows its own path. Mine led me to peace. Now it’s time to begin again. I wonder where this path leads?
I’ve taken the day off work. I’m not really fit for working, today. The loss of my Dear Friend one year ago weighs heavily on my heart today. I slept poorly, plagued by sorrowful restless dreams. I left the house early and headed to the seashore, a place both my Dear Friend and my Granny loved. I feel closer to them any time I am at the seashore.
I arrived just before daybreak, too early for breakfast. I parked at a favorite beachfront spot and waited with my thoughts and the coffee I bought for the drive (but barely touched). It is a foggy, misty morning, well-suited to grieving and thinking thoughts.
Sand and sea, and solitude.
I sit on the sea wall, in the morning chill, listening to the gulls overhead and watching daybreak become dawn. Cloud cover obscures any hint of sunrise. I’m okay with that. Slow tears fall. I miss my friend as I sit here watching, listening, waiting… What am I waiting for? Grief to fade? It’s an unrealistic expectation. She was too dear to me, and too much a part of the woman I have become over the years of our friendship. More so even than the son who was my partner for a time, which makes me laugh somewhat inappropriately as my tears fall. Grief is funny like that; it makes its own rules.
The year that has passed since my Dear Friend’s death has been mostly too busy for grieving, beyond the most minimal momentary sorrows that overcame me unexpectedly now and then. I immersed myself in the busy-ness of life, work, and caregiving of my injured Traveling Partner. There was so much I would have shared with my Dear Friend, and I have felt her absence deeply. So… I’m here, now, taking time to feel my feelings, and to grieve honestly, without reservation. No holding back. No excuses. Just me, her, and the seashore, alone with my thoughts and memories, my cherished joys, and my moments of regret. Were there things I wish I had said? Definitely. Do I wish I had visited more often and sooner? Yes. Could I have been a better friend? A better person? More helpful and present in times of need? Yeah. Still though, in spite of those very human regrets, I’m also celebrating the joy and wonder that was our close friendship of almost 30 years. The things we did say, the moments we shared, the wise counsel we exchanged over the years, however geographically distant our residences happened to be at a given time.
… She helped me get past my conviction that I couldn’t do math, and taught me basic algebra (in my 30s), and showed me that math was just another sort of language – one that I could learn. I’ve benefited greatly from that teaching, too, subsequently going on to make my living (for a long time) in a field of endeavor reliant on relatively complicated math. Over the years we enjoyed many conversations about math, numbers, and various number theories. Good times.
… I miss her…
A hint of an idea for a bite of breakfast develops, but it’s too early still. I drive down the coast a bit further to another spot I like. I walk on the beach, listening to the sea birds, and the crash of the waves. Tide coming in? Going out? I watch for a little while, hands jammed into my pockets for warmth. I make a mark on the beach with my foot and watch the waves crashing in awhile longer. The tide is coming in. I smile to myself and walk on. The fog begins to thicken down on the beach. I walk back to the car thinking about breakfast and hot coffee.
Some time later on a foggy morning.
Breakfast was pleasant and relaxed. I had a cozy seat by a warm fire. I enjoyed the hot coffee, properly made and freshly brewed. The meal was well prepared, a half portion of biscuits and gravy. Instead of pork sausage gravy, it was crab , unexpected, but quite delicious. After breakfast I returned to my wandering and my thoughts. I would have loved to have had my Dear Friend’s company at breakfast; I think she would have enjoyed that place. (I know I always do, and it is my favorite breakfast spot in the area.)
I sit awhile in this particular beachside location, watching the tide come in, and taking occasional pictures as the light changes, changing the view. I am listening to the gulls. I sit with my recollections of the many times on similar trips I have sent my Dear Friend pictures of this or that – some view, or a snapshot of wildlife, or a flower – and shared my thoughts on how I might paint that scene. I don’t consider her to have been my “muse”, but she was deeply appreciative, and a fond fan of my art. Being an artist herself, she understood what moved me, and how to share her thoughts with me in ways that were reliably encouraging and thought-provoking. She often understood things about what I had communicated in colors, on paper or canvas, that I hadn’t explicitly acknowledged myself. I miss those things.
Time passes, the fog begins to dissipate.
Siletz Bay slowly refills, seawater covering the mud flats inch by inch. I sit quietly, enjoying the solitude, and the sound of gulls enjoying the morning their own way. I watch flocks of sea birds, some drifting over the calm water of the bay, others lifting as a group, taking flight and passing by overhead. Sunshine begins to break through, here and there.
My Traveling Partner pings me a greeting, and checks that I made the trip safely. I wish him good morning, and confirm that I arrived safely. I feel loved. Tears spill over again. I don’t have any reason why, but I don’t do anything to stop them, or trouble myself with overthinking the moment. I just feel the feelings as they come, and let them pass when they will. I needed this time for feeling feelings, that’s clear to me.
I decide to make my way further down the coast… This spot is becoming a bit crowded.
Boiler Bay
I take my time walking the muddy path around the edge of the small state park at Boiler Bay. There’s a lot to see here, for someone into rocks and waves and sea birds. The crashing and booming of the waves bringing in the tide are intense and the spray reaches the fence where it is closest to the rocky edge of the cliff.
Some waves strike the rocks so hard it sounds like gunfire.
I linger a long while in this place. Often crowded in summer months, it is almost deserted today, except for a small assortment of photographers, decked out with very serious camera gear. We pass each other on the path, each of us pausing here and there for some particular view. Each having our own version of this peculiarly shared experience. There is a common purpose, demonstrated by the unusual lack of conversation, even in groups; no one wants to ruin someone’s pictures or videos.
There is a crow checking out the goings on. He has no reluctance about making a racket when someone is filming. lol I sit nearby on a picnic table, watching him watching me for some little while.
The cold begins to stiffen my fingers and I return to the car to warm up. I think about all the beachfront places my Dear Friend and I had talked about seeing together, rather long ago when she was still up for traveling. After a few minutes of thought, I decide to head back up the coast to “Road’s End”, and begin again.
The path isn’t always easy.
The path down to the beach from the pull-off at Road’s End is steep and treacherous, unpaved and pocked with loose rocks… unless of course I go a few steps further on, to the proper paved path, which is much less treacherous but still ankle twistingly steep. I’m grateful to have my cane with me. I slowly take the walk down to the beach, insisting to myself that I not give up on this sort of thing. “Use it or lose it”, I mutter to myself, thinking of my Dear Friend and those last couple years, by which point she had lost most of her ability to walk more than the few painful steps the length of her small home. Long before then, she had encouraged me to keep walking, and extracted from me a commitment to avoid “losing my legs” for as long as I am able. I keep walking. At the base of the path down to the beach I look back grimly. It’s going to be a hell of a trudge back up that steep path. “Good for you, though, ya lazy bitch,” I comment to myself, more amused than annoyed.
The sun has finally come out. Midday approaches as I return to the car. Another pause to breathe the sea air. I sit with my thoughts awhile, before I make my way to the next beach, and another moment of reflection.
A bench in the sun and the sound of the sea.
The day feels warmer now. I’ve got a seat on a quiet bench in the sunshine. The fog has receded, appearing now as a cloud bank on the distant horizon. The sky is blue and my tears have dried. It’s a new day, a nice one. I sigh to myself, and smile at the little brown bird that took a seat next to me quite fearlessly. She’s having her own experience, and eyes me curiously. I want to ask her “are you my Dear Friend joining me for a moment?”, but I’m not sure I believe that sort of thing at all (I’m also not sure I don’t). I know my Dear Friend would have been quite delighted to make an appearance as a small brown bird. She sings me a bit of her song, then flies away.
My Traveling Partner interrupts my moment, reaching out about a bill that wants paying. Real life. I do the needful. Then, I breathe exhale and relax and gaze out over the sea, thinking thoughts of love, and art, and cherished dear friends who are never truly gone, after a lifetime of close friendship. Friendships of such depth don’t end with death. Death is just another change of address.
I needed to take this time for myself, to grieve, and to celebrate. To savor a friendship that has meant so much to me that it endures beyond the end of one finite mortal lifetime. We are mortal creatures. Change is. It’s only another time to begin again… There are more beaches to see, and more paths to walk.
I’m waiting at the trailhead for daybreak. It is a quiet Sunday morning, uncomplicated and ordinary. I’m okay with that. Everything does not need to be exciting all the time. Truly, it’s probably best that generally things are fairly mundane and without excitement or drama. Isn’t there enough of all that without going looking for it or creating it?
There is a big difference between “interesting” and “exciting”, and between “worthwhile” and “full of drama”. I am content with interesting moments and spending my time on things that are worthwhile.
Daybreak comes to the marsh.
There’s a hint of mist clinging in the low spots out on the marsh. The morning is drizzly and mild, and seems rather warm for winter. I don’t rush to head down the trail. I’m in no hurry, and I take time to properly enjoy the hint of a view in the pre-dawn dimness. There’s very little traffic on the highway beyond the trailhead parking. I feel almost alone in the world. It’s a pleasant feeling from the safety and comfort of not being truly alone in the world. (That would be a very complicated experience fraught with unanticipated dangers, as temptingly pleasant as it often sounds to me. Reality would not care at all about my expectations or assumptions.)
I smile and get going, boots crunching quietly on the path. Nice morning for it.
The drizzle persisted as I walked. I returned to the car quite damp, though I never felt the rain. Daybreak became dawn in the usual way, as I walked. Dawn became a gray somewhat dismal unseen sunrise, beyond the dense gray clouds. I enjoyed the walk nonetheless; it was never about the weather, only the moment.
Today I ache ferociously all over. Yesterday’s longer walk, and the time spent later moving heavy(ish) objects, and later still doing the planned housework stuff, was time and effort spent productively and well. I’m definitely feeling it, though. Today’s dampness isn’t helping. There’s a feeling of satisfaction to the pain, though, and a sense that fitness efforts are paying off, however sore I am this morning. Yesterday was a good day. I sit with the recollection for a few minutes, feeling grateful and fortunate.
Today? More housekeeping, very routine, and I am not in any hurry to get to it. It will wait, and my Traveling Partner enjoys having a little time to sleep in and wake up slowly. I sit listening to the sounds of birdsong as the morning minutes tick by gently. I have time for my thoughts, and time to run a couple errands. I probably have time to enjoy a cup of coffee, before my beloved pings me to say he’s up and ask if I would come home and make breakfast. I smile, heart full of love. It’s no great imposition to make breakfast on a Sunday (and he appreciates simple things that I make quite well), and he’s not yet sufficiently recovered to cook easily. He’s a good cook, though, and I look forward to him being back in the kitchen, inviting me to come home and enjoy the breakfast he prepares.
I sigh quietly, contentedly. I breathe, exhale, and relax. This is a pleasant moment of solitude and I linger here, savoring it. I’m grateful.
All manner of little birds call to each other, as I sit listening. I look but don’t see them. Some are in the meadow grass. Some are in the trees. Minutes pass. Soon it will be time to begin again. I’m okay with that, too.
Evening Light 