It is evening. Just at the moment, I am finding myself in a very “why do I even bother?”, and also a very “you know what, just fuck all of this nonsense” kind of place. I know it will pass. I’m not in a good place in this moment, but change is, and moments don’t last. I’m rarely this coldly angry about anything, it’s not my way to let stuff get that bad without doing something about it, so when it does happen, I’m sometimes taken by surprise and not equipped to handle it. Not this moment. I saw potential for it in a change to my medication. Things have been okay for most values of okay, but I’ve been predictably moody, and a bit blue. I’m irritable and struggling to be kind or approachable. I’m also dealing with it, and I’ve done pretty well with that. I’m just right on the absolute edge of my last nerve.
It’ll pass.
I finish getting ready for bed. It’s not late, but I’d like to begin again, with a whole new day. I move things around and set up a cozy meditation space. I breathe, exhale, and relax… We become what we practice. My results vary. I guess I need more practice…no surprise there, really, that’s the whole point of viewing things through a lens of practical practices in the first place; it’s never finished work, and there is room to do better over time.
A full moon, a new day ahead.
I woke ahead of the alarm. Some noise, undefined, unrecognized, but enough to rouse me, pulled me from a sound restful sleep. I dress and head out and reach the trailhead early enough to see the full moon, a lovely pearl against the velvet of the night sky. I try to get a picture, but it’s a wasted effort. Even with a better camera, no picture I would take could equal the haunting beauty of the full moon on an autumn morning. I enjoy the sight while I lace up my boots and put on my headlamp.
… Yesterday’s moodiness seems to be behind me, now…
The work day ahead is… just a work day. My new normal. It’s fine. I’m prepared (although I did try to leave the house this morning without my laptop! 😆) I take a moment to appreciate that I didn’t actually forget it, or have to turn back for it in any significant way. I noticed just as I was leaving the house. Win. It’s a small thing, but still worth appreciating.
As I walk a fox darts across the trail ahead. I stop, astonished. I don’t recall that a fox would be any sort of threat, it’s just unusual to see one, here. It was definitely not a coyote or a dog. I walk on, to my halfway point and sit writing. Chilly morning. Beautiful moon. A new day, and another chance to be my best self. I failed on that endeavor yesterday, but not my worst, either. It was okay for most values of okay, and that’ll have to be enough. I can do better today.
I take time for meditation. I watch the moon setting slowly. I get ready to begin again.
I reached the trail before daybreak. I walked down the path in the darkness, the bobbing half circle of light cast by my headlamp lighting the way ahead of me, but obscuring anything I might have seen beyond that bit of light. I consider that metaphorically for some distance, until my thoughts wander on.
Daybreak, and a new day.
By the time I get to my halfway point on the trail, I am thinking about the many “versions” of “myself” I have been over a lifetime. Each of the many jobs, addresses, relationships, traumas, and triumphs, have left their mark on the woman I am today. Steps on a path. A journey that is its own destination. I find myself asking some questions as I reflect on my life and the changing context(s) in which I have lived it. I think about the “here and now”, and the changes that brought me to this point.
In what version of myself have I been happiest, most often?
In what version did I most respect myself?
In what version did I enjoy the greatest sense of consistency between my values and my actions?
In what version did I seem to be most likeable?
In what version was I most likely to compromise my values for personal gain?
In what version was I villain, hero, or “NPC” in my life?
Are there versions of me that I regret so thoroughly that I am ashamed of the person I was?
How do I hold on to the best bits of all of the many versions of the woman in the mirror, and discard the worst, to become truly the woman I most want to be? (And is that version truly worthy of the effort required?)
I find self-reflection a worthwhile practice. I sit with my thoughts, listening to the sounds of an autumn morning between marsh ponds and meadow, breathing the chilly air carrying the scents of fall flowers and some hint of…mildew? It is a gray morning. The sky lightens slowly revealing a cloudy sky. The threat of rain exists in the scents on the mild breeze, and also in my arthritis pain.
The pain is annoying. I think (and write) about it too much, probably. It sometimes feels inescapable.
My Traveling Partner and I both deal with chronic pain. I do my best to manage my pain. When we’re hanging out, in pain, we each do what we can to take care of ourselves and each other. Our efforts are not reliably successful. Last night was difficult. I’d find some position in which my pain was lessened, and hold myself rigidly trying to hold on to that bit of improved comfort. He perceived it as “tension”, which I guess it was, in a sense. My tension is uncomfortable to be around, for him. He wants to help if he can (but he can’t really, it’s not that sort of thing).
His experience of pain had him squirming in my periphery, trying to get more comfortable, which I find uncomfortable to be around. I’d very much like to help, if I could (but I can’t really, it’s not that sort of thing). We do our best to be kind to each other, compassionate, empathetic without fusing with the experience of our beloved partner. It’s difficult. Pain “shrinks our world” and we’re sometimes terse with each other, when it’s actually the pain itself that is annoying us.
We ultimately ended the evening early, withdrawing to separate spaces to seek some kind of relief, if only from dealing with each other’s pain on top of our own. Seems a harsh and rather isolating approach to take, but it’s probably better than hurting each other’s feelings or taking out our discomfort on the person we love most.
I didn’t sleep well. Pain, again. I struggled with falling asleep, and once I had, I was awakened multiple times by one noise or another, or light, or the sound of angry voices, but each time I woke, the room was dark, and the house was quiet. It was weird. I woke abruptly, around 02:00, feeling a sense that “something wasn’t right”, but again all was apparently well and quiet. I returned to sleep and dreamt that I was awake… really thought I was, until my artificial sunrise woke me from a deep sleep. I had forgotten to turn it off for the weekend. I was still feeling groggy and a bit out of sorts even as I began my trek down the trail, some time later.
Saturday. No hurry, and there’s certainly ample time for self-reflection, and this is as good an opportunity than any – better than most. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I let my awareness of my pain recede into the background (for as long as I can). Daybreak becomes dawn, then daylight. I watch from my seat on this fence rail. A soft sprinkling of rain falls briefly.
I sigh to myself, suddenly missing old friends far away, and yearning to sit down over coffee and conversation. I’m momentarily overcome with a poignant feeling of nostalgia… Annapolis… Killeen… Monterey… Augsburg… Fresno… Times and people, long ago and far away. My eyes tear up a bit. The moment passes. My thoughts move on.
It begins to rain softly. I look down the path toward other places and new experiences. I admit to myself with some reluctance that it must be time to begin again… and I get to my feet, and walk on.
Freedom is a funny thing. It only works when everyone has it – and by “everyone” I mean actual people, not corporations or PACs, or governments. But… that freedom doesn’t shield anyone from the consequences of their own dishonesty, or cruelty, or foolishness. It’s a safeguard against oppression, not a permission slip to be a jackass. You’re expected to pay for your own ticket on that ride.
I’m proud of the actors, creatives, and professionals taking a stand in favor of freedom of speech alongside Jane Fonda, as she relaunches the Committee for the First Amendment . I’m proud to share that commitment. Freedom of speech is one of our most important freedoms as individuals. Seeing it being broadly attacked, even to the point of soldiers deployed to US cities is horrific.
I strongly object to the government deploying troops against our own citizens (especially knowing it’s solely due to our current president’s petty hurt feelings over people not liking him, and disapproval of his terrible policies).
You know what else I object to? Genocide, and our government’s refusal to acknowledge it or make any effective move to stop it when it is committed by a nation viewed as an ally.
I also object to policy-making that undermines access to affordable healthcare, and the inequities in healthcare for women.
I object to unqualified cronies being elevated to leadership roles in government agencies, and I object to loyalty tests as criteria for employment.
I object to allowing billionaires to make decisions about government agencies that also happen to control the purse strings on contracts that benefit said billionaires. Ethical conflicts of interest are a known problem, and I object to the crassness of our government looking the other way while the already-rich funnel taxpayer funds into their personal piggybanks.
Freedom of speech means I can share my opinion, right here, “out loud”, anytime. Freedom of speech means that the government, specifically, can’t silence me.
Speak truth to power. It matters. Um, yeah… but also? Maybe don’t go carelessly into cities being patrolled by armed troops ill-qualified for the job of keeping peace? Take care of yourself. It’s no mistake that this administration has rebranded the DoD as the Department of War, and has been aggressively seeking to drive out any service members of any rank that may be inclined to question obscene violence and acts of oppression against citizens. These are scary times. Stay safe – but not silent.
It was dark this morning, when I reached the trailhead. Foggy, too. A dense mist filled the parking lot and created a spooky scene.
Starting down the path before daybreak.
I quickly passed through the oaks on the illuminated stretch of paved trail, into the darkness. I walked with my thoughts, until I reached my halfway point. I sat and wrote, dark words, for dark times. I remember when the Berlin Wall came down… that feeling of hope, the feeling of a new world, of the end of the cold war. I’m disappointed, now., and sometimes frightened by where we appear to be heading.
Daybreak arrives shyly. The foggy morning keeps things dim, and gloomy looking. I try not to let it soak into my mood. It’s a work day. On the other side, a weekend. I inhale deeply, tasting the scents of autumn. Tuna casserole tonight? I smile at the thought of such a simple meal, wholesome, comfortable, familiar…easy. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I inhale, recollecting small moments of joy. I exhale, and let go of bullshit I can’t change. I relax, and bring myself back to this moment, surrounded by shadows and the blue gray of the fog as a new day dawns.
It’s a good time to take a stand for the things you believe in. It’s a good time to begin again.
It was raining when I reached the trailhead before dawn. I sat for a few moments quietly, waiting for a break in the rain. Eventually, I gave in to the temptation to scroll through my news feed and immediately regretted that obviously poor choice.
… People can be incredibly cruel, shortsighted, callous, petty, vengeful, stupidly focused on personal gain without regard to long-term consequences, and seriously strange. I don’t even need to give examples, you can see it for yourself, anytime, though I do recommend treating yourself with kindness and consideration, and that you limit your exposure to the fraudulent claims, boldfaced lies, and excessive trolling. It’s much, and can’t be healthy. … And also? Maybe do your own personal best to be a good human being, and a person of good character? It really does matter, every moment, every day.
The rain stopped, and I got out onto the trail, phone in my pocket, and walked to my halfway point before stopping. It’s barely daybreak and still quite dark. Another work day, but I’ve now cleared the 30-day hurdle, and I feel more relaxed. I watch the storm clouds overhead shifting and slowly drifting across the sky, the lowest ones illuminated from below, the trees silhouetted darkly against them.
… I don’t have anything much to say about the government shutdown. I’m disappointed that the clowns we’ve elected treat governing as a weird sort of partisan game, instead of simply partnering with each other to efficiently run the fucking country, ensuring Americans are provided with the services they need, and agencies are appropriately funded so they can fulfill their roles effectively. Why the fuck is running the government a partisan matter in the first place? Do the damned job! How fucking hard does that have to be? I sigh to myself, then let it go for the moment. This is not the time.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. There’s a lot going on in the world, and a lot of that is unpleasant, or even horrifying. War. Genocide. Femicide. Fraud. Deceit. Assaults and kidnappings by masked government agents. Gross inequality. Child labor. The erosion of personal rights and freedoms. Legislated cruelty. I could easily spiral into despair, it’s that bad. Soon enough there may even be armed soldiers in the streets of the largest city near me, which is strange to the point of dystopian surrealism. If I let that shit become the entire focus of my experience moment to moment, it could destroy my perspective and my mental health.
I let that crap go and pull myself back to “here, now”. The sky is beginning to lighten. Daybreak comes. Here is a new day filled with new potential, new opportunities, and new promise – and a chance to begin again, to do better, to be the person I most want to be. Every day, we each get this chance to reset, to start over, to choose more wisely and behave more graciously than we did yesterday. Hard times or easy times, we choose how we respond to events and people. Our choices will determine a lot about the experience we go on to have. I think about that awhile.
My head aches this morning. I pay it little attention, it’s nothing new. My back aches, too. I shrug it off as “just arthritis”. My tinnitus is crazy loud, like a chorus of buzzing insects, unavoidable and annoying, but this too is just part of my experience. I try to pay it no attention; it seems louder and more aggravating when I focus on it. I’m not listing my aches and pains to complain, nor to one-up you on your own, I’m just pointing out how utterly ordinary these experiences are – for me, for other people, probably for you (most especially if you’re over 50). Deal with it or don’t, it’ll still be there. Letting pain shut me down would be worse than the pain itself, most of the time. I try my best to limit how often I allow my pain to determine my choices. I’ve got a life to live and shit to do.
A new day dawns.
The cloudy sky begins to turn blue and gray and the trail is visible without my headlamp. Details emerge from the darkness as it gives way to dawn. I’m surprised to see “someone” lounging in the vineyard between the rows. A few minutes later and I can see it isn’t a “someone”, it is a small herd of deer, resting together, a pair of does and their Spring fawns. As the morning light increases, I can see a young buck further down the row, quietly standing watchfully. I am quiet and still. They pay me no mind.
I sit watching the deer, and the dawn. I fill my thoughts with gratitude for simple things that matter most. I reflect on life, the world, and being authentically the best version of myself that I can be.
…”Department of War,” I say softly, out loud, “Assholes.” The words come unbidden, and I am surprised to hear myself speak. On some level, I’m not surprised at all by the sentiment – I’m angry, and disappointed. We’re better than this – or, I thought we were. I guess maybe we’re not.
I sigh and pull my attention back to this moment, here, and the deer in the vineyard. Cars begin to arrive with farm workers. The new day is here. It’s already time to begin again.
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.
Evening Light 