It is quiet here at the side of this trail in the darkness. It is early, before sunrise. It is autumn, chilly but not cold. Everything around me is wet from rain during the night. The clouds are dense and the sky quite dark, no stars shine through.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I breathe in the chilly fresh damp autumn air, grateful to breathe easily, thinking my thoughts. The freedom to walk safely in the darkness in the wee hours is precious and I make a point to savor it. I have no reason to expect that I’ll always have such freedom. It’s a strange world, and very few things are truly lasting certainties. So, I sit here contentedly for a little while, just being. Grateful.
The night was a difficult one. I sigh to myself, from frustration, or impatience, or maybe because life itself is often difficult. It could be so much worse. I practice anchoring myself to this moment here, now. It is quite a pleasant one, and it happens to be the one I’m in. Handy.
I breathe, exhale, and relax.
I hope my beloved gets the rest he needs. It is hard on him too when I am having a bad night.
Yesterday was tiring. My annual wellness check with my GP was fine. I’m in good health for my age and considering my history that’s impressive (to me). I got my flu shot. Convenient. It’s a long drive away, though, and I was tired by the time I got home. I shared a quiet evening watching videos with my Traveling Partner. All very ordinary and happily mundane.
… I’ve been having bad dreams, more or less nightly, for awhile now. Dreams of war, of chaos, of having to “mask up” in response to some threat of chemical or biological warfare then discovering the chemical agent is inside the mask… Rough. Worse are the more abstract dreams. How the hell is a dream of a “rainstorm” of strangely sticky confetti a “bad dream”?! I have no idea. What does a dream of blood going down a drain actually mean? Lucid dreaming practices sometimes help me find my way out. Waking up is a reliable way to stop a bad dream, though it does not prevent them lingering in my thoughts, sometimes for days.
This morning I’m tired but clear headed. It’s enough to get by on. The weekend is coming. I am hoping to spend much of it in the studio. How do I most easily put a nightmare to rest? I paint its picture. It is a peculiarly personal way to exorcise my demons.
A sprinkle of rain begins to fall. I get to my feet to begin again.
I slept well, and struggled to wake easily. I slipped out of the house quietly, without waking my beloved (I think).
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The rain was fell intermittently as I drove to the trailhead. The air felt colder than the thermometer says it is. It is a relatively warm 51F/11C, and experience suggests it should feel warmer than it does. The raindrops feel warmer than I expect. It’s very strange. I get to the trail, dressed for the rain, so of course it stops raining. I begin to remove my poncho, as if to suggest confidence in the cloudy skies. As I do, it starts raining again. I laughed and put my poncho back on before I headed down the trail towards the creek on the other side of the vineyard. Nothing to see, really, it’s still quite dark and only my headlamp to light my way. I see the rain falling.
My beloved pings me a greeting. I find shelter under the trees and reply. The morning feels bright and joyful – and it’s not even daybreak yet. 😆
A break in the rain (more of a drizzle, really) and I set off again. The rain taps the hood of my poncho. A gust of wind pushes me sideways, then I overcorrect and stumble the other direction when the wind dies away. A fit of sneezing almost knocks me off my feet, but I barely give it a thought – I’m way more focused on not pissing myself as I sneeze! 😂 I stop, stand still, and catch my breath, grateful for the brief pause in the rain, and the tissues I remembered to stuff into my pocket.
When I finally reach my halfway point, it has felt like an adventure to get this far. I take shelter under the overhang of the evergreens along the creek. My usual spot is out under the open sky on the other side of the trail, but it’s raining again, so I choose differently. I sigh to myself. I won’t linger long. Today clearly isn’t the day for that.
Yeah. Rain. It is autumn in the Pacific Northwest, rain is just part of the package. Movement catches my attention. A small group of deer are walking past. One mature doe is leading three others, younger and smaller. She looks at me calmly, as she passes. They head into the trees just beyond where I’m standing. The rain continues.
I sigh to myself and finish this, eager to pull my cardigan more tightly around me and jam my hands into warm pockets. Surely I’ll warm up as I walk? I’m already looking forward to a hot shower after work. Silly human primates, always yearning for something. I grin at my very human foolishness, and begin again.
I had a restless night, but managed to get enough real rest to begin a new day gently. I woke from strange dreams feeling mostly pretty well-rested. I woke with a song in my head.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The morning is off to a comfortable start, although the song in my head hints at more. Likely nothing more than a busy Tuesday at work, but it will definitely be that.
The weather forecast a few days ago had suggested freezing or near freezing weather this week, and probably our first frost, around here. Not even close. The morning is mild and rainy, and feels almost warm. (Warm for the season, if not more generally.) I’m glad I put my rain poncho on. The morning is drizzly, and I am spattered with raindrops as I walk. Feels nice to be outside, actually. I breathe the autumn air deeply, and exhale slowly. I feel refreshed by each breath. I keep practicing as I walk; breathe, exhale, relax.
Shooting the moon.
I try to catch the moon as she peeks from behind dense clouds. I’m successful for some values of “success”. 😆 I’m fine with it. I keep walking, eventually stopping at my halfway point to write.
Over the years, as I have become more positive, more accepting, more adaptable, while learning the practices that would bring me so close to being wholly emotionally “well”, one of the most complicated challenges to emerge has had to be… being okay. Just that; learning to accept and enjoy the feeling of utterly ordinary days, pleasantly uninteresting moments, and the ordinary inconsequential mundanities of living well, has been complicated. I didn’t anticipate being emotionally well and enjoying fairly lasting contentment day-to-day might be more difficult than the process of getting there. 😆 Wild.
…Do you ever find yourself “starting shit for no reason”, or creating “drama” in the middle of a peaceful moment? Could it be that maybe you don’t feel ready to be okay after all this time…?
I breathe, exhale, and relax, watching the stormy clouds churning slowly as they sail across the night sky. It’s still awhile before daybreak. The moon has disappeared behind the clouds. I sit quietly, enjoying the darkness. I swing my feet and wonder what’s next? The year has gone by pretty quickly. 9 Tuesdays left after this one (in the calendar year).
I sigh to myself and get to my feet. Soon it will be a whole new year. Right now it’s enough to have this path (and day) ahead of me. The rain begins to fall more steadily. Time to begin (again).
I woke later than usual. No alarm. Sunday. I woke feeling genuinely better for the first time in many days. I got up, dressed, and slipped out of the house quietly.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
It’s been awhile since my Traveling Partner had a chance to sleep and wake without my (sometimes uncomfortable) presence first thing. I also prefer to wake alone and get myself together before I have to deal with people. Yes, even my beloved. I hope he sleeps in, and enjoys waking slowly.
I’m probably not yet up to a long walk, so I make a shopping list and head up the highway to a favored grocer to pick up a few things. I grab coffee on the way. I take my time with things. This is that delicate time between being ill and being entirely well where a morning of exertion could easily result in a relapse and days more being sick. I am taking my time. There’s no reason to rush.
Autumn is all around. I enjoy seeing the fall colors everywhere. I’m eager to take my recollections into the studio with me and paint thoughts of autumn, seasons, and change. A steady rain has been falling. My arthritis pain is well-managed and not vexing me. Good day to paint.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I finish my coffee and check my shopping list. It’s already time to begin again.
Being ill during the work week is bad enough. Thinking I might be over it, and discovering just as the weekend begins that no, no I’m definitely not over it, sucks so much more. I slept most of yesterday away, after I got home from work. I slept quite late into the morning (for me), waking to find my Traveling Partner already up, already drinking coffee.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I got up. Stretched. Took symptom relieving medication (I woke “during the night” around the time for my usual meds, and took those then and went back to bed). Washed my face and enjoyed the feeling of cold water on hot skin. I readied myself for the day, such as it is. I expect to spend it mostly just taking care of myself here at home. I went into the kitchen to make coffee, greeting my beloved on my way past him.
…He grumbles about my presence; I’m sick and unpleasant to be around. I take my coffee into my studio…
I ache all over this morning. Maybe from the sickness itself, maybe from being in bed so much over the past… week. Fuck. It’s been a week. No wonder my Traveling Partner was so firm about wanting me to stay home and just take care of myself. This shit has lingered. I take a couple Tylenol and wash them down with my coffee, hoping it helps. Seems a healthier choice that reaching immediately for the big gun Rx pain relief. I remind myself to drink plenty of water.
I’m only half finished with this cup of coffee (which is excellent), and I’m already thinking about going back to bed. I sigh to myself. Definitely still sick. I am glad I ran errands Tuesday, although I was already ill then, and deluding myself that I was “mostly over it”. The errands got done, and I could not have done them on any day since. I breathe, inhaling deeply, filling my lungs. I exhale slowly. I pay attention to my spine, my shoulders, my jaw, observing each notable point of pain (places I know I “carry my stress”), and coax them to relax, each in turn. Another breath. Another exhalation. Another moment to relax. I may go back to bed soon, but I’m in the studio now. That puts a smile on my face that feels like it lights me up from within. I’m not up to much, but painting is not especially physically taxing, these days; I’m set up for the painter that I am now, not that much younger, more limber, painter I was in my 20s or 30s. (I recall with some amusement, painting a rather large piece in acrylic, and just not being able to find quite the right perspective from which to work, until I stood up, looming over it from above. I painted it standing over it, leaning down, legs wide for stability, blood rushing to my head, and managing both balance and control of my brush. I could not do that now.)
I look around the studio. There’s some tidying and set up to do before I can paint, because I took my paints to the coast last weekend. It seems so long ago now. I barely unpacked. S’ok. It’s something to do on a sick day at home that will keep me pleasantly occupied and feel just a bit like I’m doing something, instead of “wasting” the weekend taking care of myself. I sit with that for a few minutes. Why does self-care feel like “wasted” time, this morning? Why did it ever? Why does it now? Do I always experience self-care as a “waste of time”? I don’t think I do. Why now? Is it down to feeling resentful that I’m sick? These fragile mortal vessels are endlessly breaking down over some virus or microbe or injury – but the care needed to restore them to good working order isn’t wasted. It’s utterly necessary. There’s always so much to do in one mortal life. Being ill is what feels most like “wasted” time. I’m annoyed that I’m ill. I have other shit to do.
…And room for more…
I move around a bit. Set up the easel. Unpack the newly arrived Pastelbord. Put the brushes in their holder (which my Traveling Partner made for me). Unfurl the cotton dishtowels I use to protect surfaces (and other art) from pastel dust. Open the paintbox that holds my precious pastels – so many colors! I sigh contentedly, and for a moment being sick is irrelevant and I’m filled with joy. Odd that a box of colors can create such a feeling of wonder and joy. I savor the feeling while it lasts. (Feelings, like moments, are fleeting, impermanent.) I chuckle at the disarray. I foolishly left my paintbox open as it appears in the picture, and one day it got knocked to the floor by mistake. Pastels went everywhere, breaking as they fell against edges. I didn’t really sort them by color when I picked them up and put them back into their neat slots. I didn’t have it in me at the time.
…I don’t know which is more visually pleasing and artistically inspiring, the mad chaos of colors, or the carefully sorted arrangement by hue. My brain enjoys them differently, I suppose. As it turned out, becoming more used to painting it pastels, it became progressively more clear that sorting pastels into neat categories, rows, trays, color gradations, are all just ways to fiddle with the colors when no painting is going on. It’s not particularly necessary, nor useful (this is an opinion, your results may vary).
I finish my coffee. I finish my writing. It’s clear I’m still unwell. I contemplate going back to bed. I think about painting. The medications have all done their thing…good for what it is, but it leaves me feeling sort of dumb and slowed down, too. I think I’ll give in to that, go back to bed, and begin again later.
