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Back to Life

September 22, 2026 //
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I dance around the room on stiff legs, feeling the sore muscles of a good weekend of painting, and starting the packing. It’s a different playlist this morning, different songs, and a different path – back to life, back to reality. Four new paintings – not a bad weekend of painting. I’m pleased with the work. The coffee in the room isn’t terrible this morning, either – it’s almost good. It’s definitely coffee.

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

Home this morning, later. Each time I pass the new work as I move between tasks, I feel “lifted”. I feel restored and recharged and satisfied. It’s not the satisfaction of cheesecake, or even of good coffee. It isn’t the satisfaction of good sex. It seems very much it’s own thing, most closely similar to the satisfaction of “coming up for air” after reading a really great book… only… I “wrote the book”, too. I only achieve this feeling from painting, and occasionally from writing (poetry, generally, when that happens). Is it about creating – or expressing? I’m not sure. Maybe answering that riddle will “break the spell”?

One measure of satisfaction.

I sigh to myself happily. Oh definitely actually happy; it is a wonderful feeling, however fleeting. It is no wonder people chase this emotion (although that’s no way to achieve it). I sip my coffee and reflect on the weekend. It has had some lovely high points.

Serendipity and timing; getting that lucky shot isn’t something to plan.

I still can’t quite believe I slept in so effortlessly, every morning, waking to the sound of gulls and morning sunshine, or the alarm for my morning medication, or some other “not early” event. It was delightful. I was unsurprised and did not resist when I woke at my usual time this morning, well ahead of the sun. I got up, showered, dressed, and got a walk in, down on the beach in the darkness (with my headlamp on). The tide was out, and the broad expanse of firm beach let me get a good mile or so of walking before my coffee. The resumed routines click into place like dominoes made of comfort and familiarity.

…Echoes of my painting playlist still ring in my memory…

I’m out of coffee, and don’t feel like upsetting my tummy with black tea. I decide to walk down to the closest cafe, which makes an excellent cup of coffee, and maybe a breakfast sandwich? I give that some thought, staring out the open balcony door at the misty foggy morning beyond the hotel. A good day to return home, I think to myself, lacing up my boots. I gather a couple packed items already ready for loading into the car; if I take them down with me now, it’ll feel less like hustling later.

Foggy misty morning. Time to go home.

Back with coffee, and a small fresh almond croissant – I don’t think I’d have believed these were made in-house if I hadn’t seen her rolling out layers of pastry dough yesterday afternoon, and seen them pulled from the oven this morning. The pleasing, somewhat grainy coarseness of the marzipan suggests that, too, was made right there. It’s a treat, and I savor it with my coffee and watch sea gulls on invisible air currents watching me, in case I might decide to share.

It is clear this pigeon considers this balcony “theirs”.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. A wee bite of breakfast and a good cup of coffee help get me going for the day, for real. There’s packing yet to do, and maybe I have time to paint just one more piece… I think about it and sip my coffee. I remind myself that I don’t need to be here, to paint; my studio is well-equipped for it. I didn’t even come here for inspiration – I brought an ample supply with me. I simply needed a bit of a break, and some solo time. I could have come here for inspiration – and surely would have found it – but that was not the need being addressed this time. I needed time in my own head, uninterrupted, focused, creative time spent immersed in the processes to do with painting. One challenge my Traveling Partner and I share is my apnea; I’m as prone to sometimes just not breathing when I’m awake, as I am when I sleep. It’s been that way for some unknown measure of time, and while the CPAP machine is a great solution for sleep apnea, it’s not particularly well-suited to daytime hours. The result is that I sometimes stop breathing while I’m deeply engaged in painting (or thinking, or reading), and as my SpO2 level drops and my body begins to do what bodies do when someone isn’t breathing, the signs of physical stress (unnoticed by me, often), get to my Traveling Partner and cause him stress, too. We are social mammals. We’re made to detect stress in “the herd”.

[Note: I’m not a doctor, nor am I a biologist, nor scientist armed with rigorous research, just a human being, being human, and noticing some things – don’t make important life decisions based on what some blogger said!]

The result of me not breathing goes beyond the eventual stress it will also cause to my beloved, himself; he will seek me out, interrupt whatever I am doing, and remind me to breathe. He’s not being mean or undermining my focus deliberately for some ill purpose, he’s taking care of me (and himself). It is also an interruption, and it does mess with my creative headspace, and that can make it hard to paint and enjoy the experience. (So, um, breathe, bitch, jeez.) Staying “too aware” of my breathing can also undermine my creative focus. It is a difficult path to follow. …But this fragile vessel does need oxygen. That’s pretty much non-negotiable. I smile to myself, grateful to have a partner who really does care whether I live or die. It’s a nice feeling to be loved.

I look over the new work again, before gently packing it for the trip home. This is always a process I face with a hint of concern, working in pastels. The work is relatively fragile, especially compared to the highly durable nature of acrylic work. I worried it will become smudged or scraped, or bent, or damaged in some way before I can place it somewhere carefully until it is framed. Oh, not worried enough to wreck a lovely morning, but there in the back of my mind is always that bit of concern. I know to work with care, when I pack them.

I sip my coffee contentedly. Gratefully. It’s been a splendid break. I think I found some shards and lost bits of myself over the course of these few days. Handy, and also worth further reflection. A stripe of blue sky tears the dense gray clouds with a bit of color. Pretty. A good time to begin again, I suppose…

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Categories Allegories, Art, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being, women, Words

Coffee First

September 21, 2026 //
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I sip my coffee gratefully. It’s good. Really good. I am having a lovely ham and cheddar scone (“Made right here!,” the barista told me proudly). The scone is also quite good. It is a pleasant beginning to a day of painting. I smirk at myself, aware that although I did sleep in, I was up quite early, and I’ve already gotten a pleasant walk along the beach at low tide, before getting my coffee at the (new) cafe that is very near to the hotel. For most values of “beginning the day”, this misses the mark. It’s fine. Close enough.

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

So, yeah, in spite of the title, my coffee was not actually “a beginning” in any meaningful way, it’s more “between” things. It is between my waking and my painting. It is between my walking and picking up more bottled water for drinking. It is between planning to shower, and actually showering. It is, however, before any painting that I may do today. (Fucking writers, man, always twisting things and making shit up. Damn it, words are not toys! LOL)

…It’s good coffee, though, and I’m glad to have it, and I will enjoy it before I begin to paint, sitting here on the balcony of my hotel room, watching the tide come in, feeling the playfulness of this moment in the morning…

Siletz Bay, low tide.

A gull sails back and forth just beyond the balcony, watching me (or more specifically, this scone I’m nibbling on). My laptop is balanced on my lap as I sit here, feet up on the other chair, writing and drinking my coffee. I know how this works; if I take my eye off that scone once I’ve set it down to put fingers to the keys, that scone is immediately at risk of being snatched by a quick and wily seagull. A ham and cheddar scone is probably not the best food for a seagull, but neither are crisps, or cookies, and I’ve seen the gulls snatch those from careless snackers many times. I’m tempted to toss a piece of my scone out beyond the balcony rail to watch the gull skillfully snatch it from the air, but doing so will only bring more gulls, and sometimes they can be aggressive about grabbing snacks, so I decide against doing that.

A view of the channel through which the bay empties into the sea. (Squint and you may see fisher-folk enjoying the season.)

It another gray morning. I take my time with my coffee while it is still hot; the light is not yet sufficient to paint by the natural light coming in through the open balcony door, and I dislike the yellow-y light of the overhead light or the table lamp. I think I’ve always disliked that strange stale-looking yellow light of incandescent bulbs. I find something sad and sinister about incandescent lighting, most especially in overhead lighting fixtures. I sigh contentedly, in spite of having to “wait for the light” this morning; this cup of coffee is really good. Also, my beloved Traveling Partner pinged me a good morning greeting, and we exchanged a few words and a couple selfies. Of all the uses of a selfie, this is the one I find most suited to living well; sharing one with someone fondly, to connect and close the distance between us, out of love. That’s beautiful. So is my beloved. I sit grinning at the picture he sent me, sipping my coffee and feeling love, loved, and grateful.

I breathe, exhale, and relax, and enjoy the moment.

A gull lands on the balcony quite near me, eyeing the last bite of scone sitting beside me. I’m a little intimidated by the size of this gull, and I sit quite still to see what is to come of this moment, here, now. The gull steps toward me, one step at a time, slowly, then reaches his neck out and takes the prize, and hops backward quite suddenly, and rather awkwardly, with the last bite of scone in his beak. Fair enough, enjoy that bite, silly bird. “Go on with you, then, you got what you came for,” I say out loud. I reach for my camera – if he’s going to linger, I’m going to get a picture, I think to myself. He immediately takes flight, and soars out across the bay before landing on a broad expanse of exposed mud flat.

I sigh to myself. It’s hard to beat coastal time for relaxation (in my experience). Even the dense beautiful green solitude in the forest doesn’t hit these heights of “chill time” in the same way. The wind and the waves here silence my tinnitus in the most remarkable way, and unless I go to one of the sloughs or marshes, I’m unlikely to be dealing with a lot of buzzing or biting insects. The tides almost beg to be watched, coming and going, for long lazy hours of uncounted minutes. The clock seems to stop ticking. Funny thing, I don’t think of myself as “a seashore person”, and I don’t swim often (I don’t prefer to be immersed in water at all, really, unless it is a deep hot bath). I don’t sail or aspire to it, and don’t own a boat, or spend time on them. It’s the sight of the sea, the smell of the wind and the sound of the waves, that hold my attention. They connect me with my Granny, who loved the sea and life on the Chesapeake. They connect me with my Mother. They connect me with my Dear Friend. I love being here by the sea, and for my own reasons I enjoy this strange shallow muddy bay, along the rocky coastline of Oregon. It empties until only a thin ribbon of the Siletz River winds through it, emptying into the ocean through a small channel between Salishan Beach and the beach here at Taft, where this hotel sits. Yesterday at high tide, I watched a man and his dog playfully wade out almost to the other side of the bay, without ever stepping into water more than waist high. I’ve stayed in this very hotel during a season of “king tides” that were extraordinary, and feeling the hotel rocked by the waves crashing into the rip-rap holding back the sand and the tide, and keeping the hotel on it’s foundation, was quite terrifying at times, and I definitely regretted my ground floor room on that visit, although I don’t think I’d have enjoyed the swaying reported by guests in 4th floor rooms, either.

…this coffee is quite good…

I sigh contentedly, feet up, coffee cup warm in my hand, the sound of the wind and the waves in my ears, and grateful for this chance to really rest and put aside the routine of a typical Monday in favor of this calm joy. “Home, tomorrow,” I think to myself – and I’m happy about that, too. I miss my beloved. I feel the change of the season coming, and I will find comfort in his strong embrace. Soon. In the meantime, I’ve got this day to myself, to paint, and to reflect, and to be. It’s enough. More than enough. I finish my coffee, ready to begin (again).

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

Baptism by the Sea

September 20, 2026 //
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Or, more specifically, in it. It was the “joyful noise” that distracted me from what I was doing, which was a less than ideally productive bit of messing about with a painting I already knew had “failed” – so I was working and overworking it, trying to find something in it worth keeping. I did not. The noise down on the beach wafted up at regular intervals. Cheering. Clapping. A crowd of merry-makers. It is, after all, a beach, and it is the end of summer.

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

My back was aching, anyway. I stood and stretched to take a break and step out onto the balcony to see the source of the noise. A dense gathering of people, on day I might not expect so large a crowd unless for a planned event (like the kite flying event going on further up the beach this weekend). I watch and listen. I can’t make out the words, other than an occasional call for “the next” to come into the water. There the crowd, on the edge of the water. The bay is very shallow and it is low tide (just 12 minutes ago). There is a man separated from the crowd, further out, where the (very) shallow bay reaches waist deep on an average-sized man, which this one appears to be. He raises his arms to the sky, calls to the next person, they come to him in the water – and he dunks them in. The crowd goes wild with cheers, clapping, and calls of “hallelujah!”. Full immersion baptism is still a thing in some Christian denominations. (I can’t say I really “understand”, but understanding is not what religions are about.)

…I rather question doing that sort of thing in the muddy water of Siletz Bay, but it isn’t my religion, and I really just don’t have a horse in that race…

I stand on the balcony watching for a little while. I find myself wondering why the many followers of the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Moses Jacob* don’t all recognize each other on the path? Why are they at odds, ever? The ink on a set of holy documents is barely dry before older sects decry the false gods and heresies of a religion that just seems like more of the same to me, with my outsider’s perspective. Fighting like poorly behaved siblings, and very much in need of a nap. Real community develops around shared ideas (and suspicions), but it is a shame so much damage is done in the world over religion(s).

A September morning at Siletz Bay, and no hint that a sunny afternoon is ahead.

I take a breath of the clean sea air. The afternoon is warm after a chilly, overcast, misty morning. When did that change occur, I find myself wondering. I had been “distracted” from watching the clouds and the changing tide, focused on a small 5″ x 7″ piece of carefully prepared board, on which I had been utterly failing to achieve anything that could actually be called “art’. The colors came out muddy and imprecise, and the lack of precision wasn’t the serendipitous sort I often count on, it was more the failed chaos of the lack of clarity of mind that sometimes comes “as a side” with inspiration (for me). Too many ideas, and I failed to select the focal point of the work with sufficient care. The piece doesn’t know what it wants to be, at all, and our dialogue fails to reach an understanding between thought and execution.

Afternoon sunshine, ripples on water.

…The warm afternoon sunshine cares nothing about such things. I make a cup of tea and take it out onto the balcony, to listen to the waves as the tide turns…

I briefly consider taking pictures of the baptism ceremony happening on the beach below me, and decide against it. Isn’t part of what’s gone wrong in the world the loss of privacy from too many of our personal moments being photographed by (or for) strangers and unseen cameras? Turning our lived moments into “content” for the broader consumption of others is a little weird, is it not? Were I participating in such a moving personal moment as my baptism into a religion, I would certainly not want to discover later that it was published somewhere, in an article I had no opportunity to see or consider, putting me on display for anyone at any moment. Nope. I would not care for that at all. So… I put my camera down, and sipped my tea instead.

A recent sunrise near home. A moment of lived experience that will never be repeated quite as it was.

We make moments. We make art. These are very human things. Lived experience. You know what “AI” doesn’t have? Any of that. No comprehension. No emotion. No pleasure in a moment of lived experience. No context. No compersion. No joy. No ability to grow wisdom through failure – because there is no understanding. I watch the sun beginning the slow summer journey from afternoon to eventual nightfall. It’ll come when it comes. Watching a sunset on a warm summer afternoon is also a very human experience. However many times you might get an AI to describe a sunset, it has never seen one. You may not like everything about every group of people, but do you really want to abdicate human decision-making about human lives to some thoughtless algorithm that doesn’t understand the consequences of its decisions and can’t comprehend the outcome? That can’t ever understand the emotional and real-world cost of taking human lives? I sip my tea and think my thoughts as I watch the human beings on the beach doing human things. Living their lives.

An unexpected visitor.

Gulls sail past on eddies of air currents invisible to me. They watch me sitting on the balcony, expectantly. Will I, perhaps, bring something tasty out onto the balcony and carelessly look away? They are practiced at this. I can see from the spatterings of bird poop on the balcony rail that this is a stopping point for one or more of these birds. (Earlier this morning, I turned and found myself facing a lone pigeon sitting on the rail. Gulls are bigger, but it’s no surprise when they stop on the balcony or on the rail – tourists mean snacks..) I watch the small fishing boats out in the choppy waters at the mouth of the bay. This is a popular spot for fishers.

I sip my tea, and think about love. The moment feels eternal. I’m not in any hurry, and I can’t hear the clock ticking at all. 🙂

*and a quick “thanks!” for my Traveling Partner, who definitely knows more about Christianity than I do!!

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Categories Allegories, Art, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, thoughts on AI, Words

How, Though?

September 18, 2026 //
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Choices or routines? It’s almost either/or, but for the fact that even routines are choices.

… This morning I “overslept”…

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

My walk this morning is shorter, and fully in daylight. It’s still morning, still early, and I watch the sunrise develop on the eastern horizon as storm clouds from the west move to “meet the sun halfway”. I reach the halfway point of a shorter walk, and stop to write fewer words. (I meditate, too, but set a ten minute timer.)

Did I fail to set my alarm, or turn it off during the night? Doesn’t matter. I’m here, now.

No reason to take any of this at all personally, or to let it stress me out. I’ve already “caught up with” my timing.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s already time to begin again!

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Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being, Words

We Made This

September 17, 2026 //
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This world we live in – we created it. Together, all of us. It’s a strange thought, isn’t it? Every choice, every action, every mistake, every great new idea; it is through us that we make our world. Choose wisely, eh?

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

This morning I read that Peter Max had died. Monday it was. There’s a little less color in this world with his passing, but realistically, the colors he juxtaposed on canvas (or on envelopes), were not enough to render the world as beautiful as he saw it. I wipe away a single tear with a sad smile and think of Van Gogh for no particular reason.

…I offer them both a silent salute, raising my water bottle to the starry night sky, before I head down the trail…

I rub my hands together a bit for warmth as I reach my halfway point and take a seat for a moment or two. I think of Monet’s failing eyesight, and feel the pain in my thumbs. He kept painting. No doubt I will too, for as long as I’m able.

I sigh to myself feeling the threads connecting my work to theirs. These are more pleasant thoughts, generally, than contemplating the mess humanity has made of the world. Artists and makers know, perhaps more than most people, we are creating this world we live in, all of us, together. So, what are we choosing to make? Is this really what we want? Can’t we do better, relatively easily? I think about that awhile, watching Orion slowly rise in the eastern sky. He’ll vanish from view when daybreak comes.

What exactly are you doing to make the world a better place? I mean the easy stuff, close to home, like treating your partner and family well, and being helpful to a friend, a neighbor, a stranger of another ethnicity. I mean the somewhat harder stuff, too, like speaking truth to power, like standing firm on explicitly calling genocide “genocide”, even if doing so seems to be at odds with national pride or political interests. I mean the obvious stuff, like picking up trash, and keeping things tidy, too. It all counts. It adds up. We could do more, and better.

I think about the weekend ahead. My beloved Traveling Partner programmed the marine traffic radio frequencies into my radio, so I can try listening to the shipping traffic while I’m on the coast. I grin to myself, feeling very loved.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate on gratitude and wonder. I reflect on painting inspiration as yet unfulfilled. I reflect on love and prematurely experience a pang of wistful loss and absence – I will miss my Traveling Partner (I always do). He is my beloved, my muse – why not just paint at home? Why not bring him along? It’s honestly this; I need some solitary time to thrive, and more than that, my passion for my partner is both deeply inspiring, and also an incredible distraction. 😆 When he is near, I will reliably choose his company over most other things, however needful, urgent, or pleasant, those things might be. (It’s admittedly not ideally emotionally healthy, and I am frankly unconcerned.) Since I need to paint and write to be emotionally and mentally well, this sets up a bit of a self-care conflict, internally, so vacations and getaways with my partner are quite a separate thing. This has worked for us. Your results may vary.

I breathe in the autumn scented air. I watch a brightly lit farm machine moving back and forth among the vineyard rows, a way off. Earlier a heavily loaded, slow, quite long freight truck pulled through, on the narrow agricultural access road that cuts through the vineyard. It’s bright colorful lights made a merry display as it bounced slowly along. There’s a hint of sweetness in the air… grapes? Am I imagining the scent?

It’s a lovely beginning to a new day. I slept well. I hope my beloved did too. I think about dinner later – leftover enchiladas. It’s not fancy but the company and conversation will be excellent. My partner is working on a new (work) project. I hope he has a fantastic day working on it. I’m eager for him to tell me more, over dinner.

We live in the world we’ve made. Let’s make it a good one, for everyone. We can begin again. We can do better.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, The Big 5, thoughts on AI, War and News of War, women, Words
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