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Perfection and Happily Ever After

April 24, 2026 //
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I started my walk on this beautiful Spring morning feeling rested and merry, capable and unbothered. The moment was as nearly perfect as moments ever really get. There’s no “but”, or “and then”, or “if only” – it was simply a lovely moment to be walking as the sun began to rise. I made a point of enjoying it as I walked.

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

I get to my halfway point still feeling pretty lighthearted and still enjoying the spring morning. The grass is dewy and the morning a little chillier than it has been. I’m glad I wore my cardigan.

A new day, with new opportunities to choose, and to practice, and to begin again.

I smile, sitting here quietly enjoying this solitary moment. My Traveling Partner pings me a loving message. It adds to my delight. I find myself thinking about fairytales and happily ever afters. I enjoy a good story, but damn “happily ever after” is an enticing notion that fucked my thinking up for years and years, provoking me to chase happiness, only to fail to ever be happy, again and again. It compounded my misery for a long time.

There is no “happily ever after”. It’s a trap. The Happiness Trap. It’s so tempting and damaging, someone (Russ Harris) wrote a book about it. A worthy read if you are stuck on that treadmill. I was, for a long time.

Happiness isn’t really something to chase, I eventually learned. Through patient practice I learned to build contentment and resilience, and like sleep catching up with a toddler, happiness eventually caught up with me. Happiness, though, is like a moment; it is fleeting. Its intoxicating joy doesn’t last indefinitely, and what remains when the moment passes depends a lot on the path I’ve chosen to walk. Once upon a time, a moment of happiness left behind only misery and disappointment as it departed. Now, happiness can come and go as moments do, and I relish the intoxicating bliss and let it go without clinging when the moment passes. I rest in contentment between moments. Mostly.

See, there’s also no perfection – and no potential for it. The path we walk through life isn’t paved and well maintained in any reliable way. There is no map. No user’s guide. No “training game”. We try things and fail. We learn from mistakes, which we make plentifully (all of us). We walk on. Life is imperfect. People, too. One of the best things I ever did for myself was to stop clinging to the bullshit idea that I could perfect anything, including myself. Imperfect is fine. Imperfect is real. Authenticity matters more than “perfection”. This doesn’t stop me from seeking to become the woman I most want to be, just stops me from being frustrated when even she is not “perfect”. Mistakes will be made. My results will vary. It’s a very human experience.

I watch the sun rise, feeling close enough to “happy” that the difference can’t possibly matter, and it’s enough. More than enough. We become what we practice. Practice savoring each small moment of joy, and refraining from clinging to moments as they pass, and I find myself feeling joy more often, and really feeling it, in the moment (not just noticing as it slips away). It’s nice. Worth the effort. Worth the practice.

Here it is, another morning. Another moment. Another chance to begin again. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and welcome the joy of a moment in springtime before I begin again.

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Categories Allegories, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Practices, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, women, Words

Ripples and Reflections

April 20, 2026 //
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Self-reflection is not a five minute exercise that reliably results in some sort of personal transformation. It requires time and repetition. I’m still processing the weekend, and it’s already Monday. The shift back to the work routine comes with the sound of grinding gears, metaphorically speaking.

Sometimes illumination comes as a flash of insight, sometimes it comes in waves.

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

This morning I am thinking about my (possibly excessive) reliance on habits and routines so well established they amount to a sort of “autopilot”. Very efficient, cognitively, but my partner has pointed it out more than once as potential problem, because autopilot doesn’t “read the room”, nor does it have the capacity to listen deeply, respond in a considerate way, or adapt quickly from an emotional perspective. Not mine, anyway. It’s better at driving the car than being present.

Efficiency and being “productive” get a lot of emphasis in our excessively work-focused culture. Funny thing though, reading articles about end of life regrets or quality of life recommendations from elders, it’s rare that anyone ever lauds work, and regrets are commonly to do with missed opportunities to connect with friends and loved ones. Autopilot is better for work than for relationships. Autopilot is not mindful, present, or self-aware. It is a tool with limited value.

For a brain damaged teenager trying to master the basics of driving a car safely, there’s a certain limited value in putting a few things on “autopilot” (check both ways before turning onto the street, stop completely at stop signs, use the turn signals…) but a grown woman seeking to build or deepen a romantic connection with a beloved partner, autopilot is not only inappropriate, it’s ineffective. It’s also…rude.

I walk with my thoughts, grateful for a partner who loves me enough to communicate what doesn’t work for him in an honest way. It’s hard to hear, when I’ve been a jerk, but being open to hearing honest boundary setting and feedback also gives me a chance to reflect on my choices and consider new ones. Autopilot improves cognitive ease, but improving cognitive ease comes at a cost. I sigh to myself. Choices. We become what we practice.

Deep listening, openness, consideration, being present, and emotional intimacy are among the most challenging practices; doing any of them well requires attention and self-awareness, and a willingness to be “in the moment” with another human being, awake and aware, no shortcuts. No autopilot. Another sigh as I pause on my walk to gather my thoughts, write, and reflect. I definitely need to make some changes. I feel comfortable with my sense of what those changes need to be.

Sure, autopilot is more efficient. I go faster, get more done, but the tradeoffs come in a combination of silly mistakes made in haste, and a shallow superficial presence that lacks real connection. It’s not really a difficult choice, just a ton of practice to do. There are verbs involved. Understanding isn’t enough. Recognition isn’t enough. There’s real work involved in slowing down and being really present – and also setting clear explicit boundaries and expectations when I am not available for deeply connecting, or for paying attention to something different than I am doing in some moment (these may be the hardest things for me to learn to do well).

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I watch a gray dawn become a new day. Seems like a good one to begin again – with changes. Change is.

Sometimes the path takes an unexpected turn. Follow it? Choose another path? It is a choice.
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Categories Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, Logic & Reason, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

More Than a Happy Place

April 19, 2026 //
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I sipped my first coffee, feet up, sitting by a cozy fire, watching the light change with the gray coastal dawn. The view to the west is layers of gray and soft blue. For me, this place is more than a delightful destination to get away for a little while; the ocean symbolizes a relentless force of reality that compels self-reflection and forces me to face myself as I watch the waves roll in. There’s no arguing with the ocean. It represents a resilient nature indifferent to external storms, even in the midst of them. Obstacles are washed away, or, like driftwood, piled on the shore, visible, removable, and easy to avoid. The ocean is unyielding about her boundaries, and for me she provokes deep thought, and a presence that I find I must linger with.

…The views from this hotel are spectacular…

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

I pour a second coffee. The coffee machine here is quite clean, and the coffee must be fresher than usual (for a hotel); it’s quite good. I sit watching the waves. The tide is going out. I am surprised by a deer ambling up the steep slope just beyond the window.

It’s worth it to slow down and observe what’s going on, even when nothing seems to be going on.

She looks at me through the window, pauses to nibble some tasty plant, and ambles on.

Two of the women most dear to me (and most significant in my own life as a woman), loved the sea and seaside places. My Dear Friend and my Granny have ended their mortal lives some time ago, but when I am at the seashore, I feel them with me. It doesn’t matter whether it is the rocky coastal beaches of the Pacific Northwest, or the marshy edges of the Chesapeake Bay, or the kitschy seaside towns that tourists flock to each summer. I love being by the shore, too, if only because it connects me so deeply to these two women, who are so much a part of who I am myself. Sometimes when I most need to be alone, I am taking that time to “talk with my ancestors” in a way I find difficult to describe. It sometimes seems funny that I never feel my Dad’s presence in such places; his are the forests and meadows. The ocean seems to me to be a very feminine sort of energy. I find myself wondering if sailors feel that way, too? Theirs is a very different relationship with the sea…

Fisherman early in the morning.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I feel well and whole, and capable. I feel comfortable in my skin and grounded in the goodness of my life. I’ll head home eagerly to see what my Traveling Partner has done while I’ve been gone. He is, himself, a force to be reckoned with, and as his abilities return he is capable of moving mountains (and definitely furniture). Certainly, he moves me.

For now, it’s me and this beautiful expanse of beach, and this gray ocean under a cloudy sky – and another cup of coffee. I’ve got plenty of time to begin again, a little later.

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Categories Allegories, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, women, Words

Road’s End

April 18, 2026 //
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Roads end. I mean, I guess they do, at some point, even this one, although it doesn’t appear to end here. That’s just the name of this place, “Road’s End”. It’s a small state park at the edge of the shore, with a trail down to the beach. I am here, listening to the sound of wind and waves (and some asshole with their car radio on loud enough to be heard, which I could do without).

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

The view from Road’s End

I definitely need this time alone. I don’t get much solitude as things are, and my Traveling Partner was encouraging to the point of being willing to find me a suitable hotel and book a room for me. (I was going to make it a day trip and call it good enough.) I felt very loved, and excited to enjoy the day on the coast, and a night of solitary fun, reading, writing, and meditating.

A small bird. A moment.

This morning is different. At least for now I am neither merry nor at peace with myself. Instead I’m wrestling demons. It’s fine. Part of life with cPTSD and brain damage, I guess, and in spite of some 30 years in and out of therapy of one sort or another, I still deal with the chaos and damage. I’m not surprised by that, though I am dismayed, disappointed, and even sometimes despairing over it when shit blows up over some little thing, or I disgrace myself by losing my temper or hurting someone I care about with thoughtless words or actions. I do my best, I still fail. This is human.

… It’s also human when it’s someone else having a moment. It is important to forgive, and to make room for people to grow through experience. We’re each having our own experience…

So I’m sitting here at Road’s End, thinking my thoughts. Thinking about endings and beginnings, and change, and trying to be grateful for the solitude I am fortunate to enjoy. I need this time to myself, it meets needs I struggle to meet without the quiet of solitude. I do wish I were enjoying it on other terms than these but feeling mired in my bullshit, I’m glad to be alone with that.

… But is the sky still blue?

What matters most? I sit with the question for a little while, on a fence rail looking out at the sea. The sound of ocean waves reaching the shore and the sea breezes used to be enough to drown out my tinnitus. Now there is a high pitched whine that I still hear, but only on the left side. I frown, momentarily distracted from my thoughts. I hope it’s nothing serious.

I’m thinking about my “baggage”. Not the carefully packed weekend bag I slid onto the seat of the car. I mean “my baggage”. It’s a figure of speech that is so apt it’s easy to forget it is metaphorical. No matter where I go, no matter what relationship I’m in, I drag my bullshit along with me. Baggage. I’ve made so many changes, and I have grown and improved my thinking and behavior so much over the years, but at any moment I may yet again be standing in the middle of my pile of carefully crafted custom matched set of baggage I still lug around with me, somehow only partially unpacked even after all these years. It’s super annoying. Frustrating. Discouraging.

Beginnings. Endings. Practice.

We become what we practice. We choose what we practice. It is important to choose wisely and stay focused on who we most want to be, because if we choose poorly, we may become someone else entirely.

I sit feeling the breeze and watching the horizon. My head is filled with ghosts and regrets. Weird morning to have them turn up and demand attention. My skill with choosing relationships has been poor: a violent psychopath, a manipulative slacker looking for a meal ticket, a cruel woman who delighted in gaslighting me, an assortment of lovers who may have lacked any explicit bad intentions but found value in my limited capacity to understand that I was being taken advantage of… Then there’s my Traveling Partner. One good relationship in a lifetime of trauma and chaos, but the opportunity came late in life, and I still find myself picking metaphorical shards of past damage out of new emotional wounds. I find myself apologizing a lot. That’s got to wear thin after awhile. It still matters, and I keep practicing.

I sit by the sea feeling the breeze, and the weight of all the many mistakes I have made over 16 years with this singular human being. I wonder if he does the same thing, when he finds that he’s hurt me without intending to. Neither of us are perfect beings of pure love and empathy. I feel confident neither of us would hurt the other intentionally. That’s not who we are. We are, however, quite human. I sigh to myself and let it go, at least for the moment. I remind myself that self-care matters, and in solitude there is no excuse to treat myself as second best, ever. I left rather abruptly this morning, instead of enjoying a leisurely coffee with my beloved. Coffee and some healthy calories would be good…

… The descent into madness often begins with poor self-care and low blood sugar…

I guess I should begin again. I don’t know where this path leads…

Sometimes the path isn’t an easy one.
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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Despair, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Chilly, Early

April 17, 2026 //
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It is a Friday morning. I’m sitting at the halfway point of my morning walk. I sat here for some little while before I pulled my hands from my pockets to write. This morning I made a point to grab my heavy fleece, scarf, and gloves from my gear bin in the car. Practical. I’d feel smart to have done so, but it’s more to do with being reminded they are there for me, last night, when I went looking for a spare filter cone for an evening coffee for my Traveling Partner who had put the ceramic one in the dishwasher.

… Reminders are helpful…

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

I feel the cold. Another near-freezing morning, but already daylight (jeez, how long was I sitting?) and things will warm up pretty quickly. Probably. Change is, and warmer days are coming.

I take my medication on time, double-checking that I took all of it. I missed a small pill yesterday morning that resulted in an unfortunate (and deeply unpleasant) emotional meltdown over nothing of consequence. It was inexplicable, and I was grateful to discover my mistake a little later, and felt more myself shortly after taking it. I think there is too little discussion about the very real psychiatric and mind or mood altering effects of common prescription (and nonprescription) drugs. We could do better.

A small herd of deer quietly and slowly walks past me, one by one. The group of does steps from the trees on the creek side of the trail, each looking at me cautiously as she steps into the more open space, and they cross the trail, and continue into the vineyard, nibbling on choice grasses and tender green shoots. Spring. They’re hungry and lean from winter, and a couple are also clearly pregnant. They are more concerned with finding food than they are with my quiet presence. They walk on, and disappear from view.

My Traveling Partner offered to disappear for the weekend. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. I feel very loved that he offered. I could fuck off to the coast, myself, and get some solitary time, but the expense is difficult to justify. I sit thinking about things he said yesterday evening about self-care and taking the time I need, and setting better (clearer) boundaries when I’m reaching the limits of my resources. He reminded me that he no longer needs the near-continuous care I was providing after his surgery. This is definitely true. I’m relieved and happy every time I think about it. I’m also struggling to adjust, to step back, to give myself a break.

…We become what we practice…

I sit reflecting on what I need, myself, to be well and healthy, and to thrive in my life. I remind myself how adaptable I am. I remind myself that we become what we practice. I sigh quietly and watch the vapor of my breath dissipate in the chilly morning air.

… Maybe a drive to the coast and coffee on the beach this weekend, if my beloved stays home? Or a very different sort of self-care in the form of some retail therapy? (I could do with some new bras, and prefer to shop for such things in person.) Maybe a different hike somewhere new? Another sigh. No idea. I could stay home and paint, or finish tidying up my studio… I could work in my garden. I feel the “want to’s” begin to collide with the “have to’s”, and feel annoyed with myself when they blend and blur and begin to morph into more of the same scrambling and striving and working that I’ve trapped myself in for awhile now. I should work on that.

I laugh out loud. Adulting is hard. I’m tired. I’m also making choices. I can make different ones. I get to my feet, looking down the trail into the future. It’s time to begin, again.

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words
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