Archives for category: Oregon Trails

I’m still getting used to the sense of peace that has seemed to envelope our home. The Anxious Adventurer is well on his way back to his maternal family. He shares pictures and updates from the road, whenever he stops along the way. I’m glad he’s taking his time and having a safe journey. I’m glad he has moved out. I still don’t get how he managed to create so much tension and discord from his purported good intentions. One of life’s unsolved puzzles, I suppose.

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

Yesterday ends with a pretty pink sunset.

Yesterday was a lovely, rather ordinary seeming work day. I’m able to comfortably work from home any day – which was not at all the case while the Anxious Adventurer resided with us. We just weren’t getting enough good quality sleep and it was a far better choice to avoid bullshit conflicts caused by fatigue and lost resilience by working elsewhere. I sit at the halfway point of my walk this morning thinking about that between sneezing fits. I add travel tissues to my shopping list.

Today begins with a chance to begin again.

The weekend is almost here. I plan to spend time in the garden. I remind myself to ask my beloved Traveling Partner to turn on the outside water to the front of the house (I can’t reach that valve) and add a reminder to turn on the water to the back (which I can stoop down for more easily). It all feels so relaxed and ordinary.

… I feel so much love…

Pain changes who we are. Mine is more well-managed than it had been. The medications we may be asked to take for some variety of conditions may change who we are. I watched my beloved go through it both before and after his surgery. Of course the changes we go through (or which are inflicted upon us) also change us. No question about that, and as human beings we go through a lot of changes. The Anxious Adventurer chose change, but found it uncomfortable and never quite embraced the opportunities it presented. Fighting change also changes us. We are who we are – also true – and change itself is nonnegotiable. Change is.

… What we choose to do about change and how we behave in response to it matters a lot, and we have so much control over that…

I sit smiling, breathing the almost warm Spring air. It smells of flowers. I sneeze a few more times. Tree pollen. I’m okay with it. I like the smell of flowers more than I care about the sneezes. I think about my beloved Traveling Partner and my heart is filled with joy and encouragement. I’m grateful that in spite of going through so much these last couple of years, we’re still together, still a strong loving partnership. The outcome wasn’t guaranteed, and at times I had doubts. It was hard sometimes and I honestly wasn’t sure I could do the needful when called upon. I was so tired, so often. Here we are, though, on the other side. I’m glad.

I sit listening to the noisy robins and watching squirrels play. I spot shy bunnies in the underbrush at the edge of the trail. They are quicker than my camera this morning. I’m in no great hurry to rush off to begin the work day. I sit with sore muscles thinking about love.

For a time I allow myself the luxury of paying no mind to the ticking clock. I am not measuring minutes or moments, just enjoying them awhile. Later will be soon enough for work calendars and meeting schedules, housework and to-do lists. This moment is mine. I savor it. I can begin again a little later.

I’m sitting at the “halfway point” of this walk on a familiar trail, chuckling to myself over my lack of precision. It’s not actually halfway. Depending on whether I complete the loop, or turn back the way I came, it’s more or notably less than halfway. lol It’s a convenient stopping point sort of halfway-ish, with a pleasant spot to sit for a few minutes, that’s all. I routinely refer to this as halfway, in much the same way I might cut a sandwich in two pieces, and call each piece “half” of the sandwich without regard to how evenly split it actually is. Just saying… I’m not measuring these things for accuracy.

… I’m living my life…

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

The morning feels strangely compressed. Shorter. As though the minutes are somehow going faster. I know it’s not an accurate perception of time. Firstly, I slept past my sunrise alarm, and woke some minutes later to the lights on full brightness. Now, I’ve been sitting here listening to birds chirping and singing alongside this trail for who-knows-how-long – I definitely don’t. I didn’t check the time when I stopped. It’s been… some time. Honestly, it’s already time to head back to the car. Here I sit. Quietly. Contentedly. Enjoying this moment. It’s enough. I’d linger in this feeling for much longer, were that an option. All day maybe, as I might choose to do while camping. I sigh to myself and think my thoughts awhile longer.

… It’s time to plan some sort of camping trip, maybe…

Pause for a moment. Breathe.

Vita contemplativa. Ichi-go ichi-e. Each time for the first time, each moment the only moment. What a deliciously luxurious feeling it is to slow down. I stretch and enjoy the sunrise.

I know, I know, moments are fleeting. The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again. I will…soon. For now, I’m enjoying this lovely moment.

A new day, a new beginning, eh? Gotta start somewhere. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Like a lot of mornings I woke with a song in my head. Why this one? No idea – it’s somewhere to begin, though.

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

So I begin the day reflecting on a song and a moment and wondering what my dreams may have been whispering in my ears during the night, and whether that matters at all.

Yesterday was strange. Filled with conversations about my Traveling Partner maybe being out for several hours or possibly overnight, or maybe not going anywhere at all. Suddenly, he was heading out. At that point it was unexpected, but I adapt quickly; I enjoy solitude at home, and it’s quite rare. It’s a busy workday for me. I eventually finish with that, do a couple things around the house, and shower. I sit down and put my feet up, and he’s letting me know he’s heading home. I chuckle to myself. Any little bit of disappointment I briefly feel is quickly washed away by my enthusiasm for his company. We’ve got a good thing. Solitude can wait, it always does. 😄

We shared a lovely quiet evening, no drama, no fussing, no weird hint of persistent anxiety in the background. We’re open to each other and converse easily without strain. How were the last 20 months so fucking difficult? I sigh to myself. People are who they are. They bring all the mess and bother and vexation within themselves along with them everywhere they go. They are each having their own experience, and walking their own path. This is true of my beloved Traveling Partner and of me, and of the Anxious Adventurer. I sigh to myself, grateful to have my space back, and my peace, and genial quiet evenings of effortless conversation and endless seeming moments of joy.

I sit watching the pearly pink sunrise from the side of the trail. Nice morning. I listen to a track my beloved shared with me. It is a deeply meaningful favorite.

My phone begins pinging me with work notifications. I ignore them; that time has not yet come. The awareness of a new work day encroaches on my peace though. I am reminded of the scramble and grind to “chase that bag” another day. I resent the weight we give nothing more significant than a paycheck. What about art? What about love? What about reasoned discourse among educated people? What about a moment alone on a trail in springtime? I laugh softly to myself. I know where I put the most value. Still , a paycheck is a useful thing and surviving “late stage capitalism” certainly seems easier with than without.

I sigh to myself again. Breathing in the cool floral scented Spring. I guess it’s time to begin again.

This morning I am struggling to focus. I feel merry. Purposeful. Suffused with contentment and joy, even. Yesterday was a good one. Satisfying and for the most part quite pleasant. The latter part of the day found me taking a break, muscles sore from joyful labor. My Traveling Partner joined me. I made salads for dinner. We spent the evening dividing the time between watching videos and love.

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

This morning I woke slowly, some little while before my alarm went off. My muscles protest against every demand I make, however ordinary. Ouch. Healthy effort, healthy work – ordinary sore muscles. I’m not even complaining, just reminding myself to take care of this fragile vessel; more manual labor today. Today the Anxious Adventurer loads the moving truck he’ll drive back to Ohio, back to a life he left with purpose and intention. It’s familiar, and familiar is easier. I do understand.

We’re each having our own experience. Each walking our own path. Each finding our own way – or not. Many people find settling into someone else’s way enough for most of a lifetime before ever questioning that choice. I wish the Anxious Adventurer well, whatever path he chooses to walk; he’s as close to a son as I’ll ever get, and I hold no grudges about his time with us. I do find myself wondering what moves him? I let it go. It’s not like he’d know how to answer if I asked.

What moves you? What shakes off your ennui or distractions and fills you with purposeful energy? What gets you up each day to face a few more steps on your path? What gives your life meaning? I sit with those questions and watch the halfmoon setting between the trees.

It’s not a very good picture, but it is a very good metaphor. What will you do with your moment?

I keep my walk short today; there’s real work yet to do later. I walk the mile it takes to wake up and warm up these sore muscles, pausing along the way for a slow gentle attempt at this or that yoga pose. I get back to the car and check on my work team (I’ve taken the day off, but want them to feel supported). I give myself time with my thoughts, time to write, to meditate, to reflect on love. I sit thinking about purpose, and the way we seek meaning, and where I find that – or create it – myself.

The clock is ticking. The path ahead is sufficiently clear. I suppose the only thing left is to begin again…

I am thinking about the work still ahead to bring my studio back to a work ready state. There’s vacuuming to do, clutter to remove and sort through, and basic housekeeping. I’ll be able to move the cabinets that are both flat storage of small canvases and also work surfaces back into the studio after those other details are handled. There are art supplies in storage that can come home. I thoughtfully examine a long glittery fingernail while wondering how much storage may have degraded some paint over time? It’s back to shorter nails, too; easier to hold a brush with a steady hand, or quickly touch something up with the edge of a fingertip. I know what matters most to me.

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

No AI used in the pictures, either, just a cell phone camera, no touch ups. No filters.

It was just the start of sunrise when I reached the trailhead this morning. Chilly. A mist clinging to low places. Pretty morning, and I stepped out of the car delighted to see the clouds disappearing toward the horizon, infused with pink.

I watched the moon set as I walked. I listened to flocks of geese passing overhead, and little birds in the trees as I passed by. What a lovely morning!

Steps on a path.

I get to my halfway point, and sit in the morning sunshine for a little while, feeling it warm on my back. I fill my senses with Spring sights and scents and sounds. I’m eager to be back at my easel, painting. I feel energized and inspired.

It feels good to have my studio back. It also feels a little weird. I’ve spent two years being accommodating, and now I am able to stretch and fill my space with inspiration and purpose. I’m grateful for this opportunity to really appreciate how fortunate I am. It was 35 years of painting before I ever had a dedicated studio space, and that first one only lasted a year – but I learned a lot about what I need artistically, and what matters most. We bought our little house in small town America, my Traveling Partner and I, in part because this little house has enough room for a small art studio for me (a bit of design and shop space for him was something that developed later, and our wee house is a little small for all of everything, but it’s generally enough).

I sit swinging my feet as I sit on this fence rail thinking about the weekend. There’s plenty to do. I try sorting things in my head, first by priority, then by level of enthusiasm, then by difficulty. None of that works; there is a necessary and rather practical order of operations to most of it. Nested tasks that only make sense in one sequence, mostly, and a few other tasks that will create pleasant breaks.

… And then there’s the garden; it’s s lovely sunny day and the garden wants attention…

I breathe, exhale, and relax. The path unfolds ahead, and I need only walk it. The destination? A work ready studio, a cozy, tidy library, and a lovely garden; isn’t that enough? I sigh contentedly, enjoying this moment just as it is. It too is enough. I hop down from the fence rail, startling s bunny in the grass I hadn’t seen approaching, and get ready to walk on. It’s time to begin again.