This morning I woke to an ordinary Saturday, with ordinary plans: an ordinary walk on a familiar trail, a typical Saturday routine of grocery shopping and some housekeeping tasks. Of course, it’s only entirely predictable (and somewhat amusing) that today there’s no rain. I smile to myself at the utter predicability of such circumstances. Plans are only plans, and the weather doesn’t take my plans into account, it just happens.
Rainy trails, rainy paths, rainy day.
Yesterday rained. It rained hard. It rained persistently. It rained sideways. The wind blew the rain under the cover of the gazebo where I had hoped to paint with a ferocity that ensured I couldn’t. I can only laugh about it. I got some great hiking in (in the rain), and pleasant time spent with my thoughts (listening to the rain fall). It was a good day. I went home early, and painted some there. It was less of what I had in mind, but it was plenty of what I needed.
I saw some beautiful places.
Sometimes “enough” has to be… enough.
I walked some challenging miles.
The cumulative effect of days hiking new trails, eager and energetic, unconcerned about the terrain, finds me aching all over this morning. My ankles ache. My back aches. My head aches. I’m stiff and my muscles are sore. I’m not really complaining, just noticing how I feel, physically. It’ll pass, mostly, and the exertion and varied movement is healthy. (Besides, I’ve been having a great time, and this pain is a small price to pay.) I managed to actually sleep in this morning, waking almost two hours later than I ordinarily might. I woke feeling rested, calm, and content.
I sit sipping my coffee and watching daybreak become the dawn of a new day. I’ll walk this familiar trail, then return home, hitting up the grocery store on my way. Housekeeping today, definitely, but maybe I’ll also paint? The future isn’t written, and this is a very good time to begin again.
Every journey begins where you are. It’s a good place to start.
The map is not the world. The plan is not the experience. I’m chuckling to myself over my iced coffee, hastily prepared on my way out this morning. I woke at my usual time, but ahead of my alarm. I woke from a sound restful sleep that followed a deeply relaxing day of self-care and creativity.
… I woke thinking it was Monday, and that I was “running late”…
I rushed through my morning routine, quickly made coffee, and quietly left the house (very much in the usual way). I was heading to the office in dense traffic and a drenching rain before I remembered that I’m off work today (and tomorrow… and next Monday…), and that I’ve got very different plans than work. It is, however, raining quite hard, too hard for unfamiliar mountain roads in darkness, too hard for plein air painting with soft pastels, later.
…I hope the rain stops…
I head to a nearby familiar local park with a favorite trail to wait for daybreak, and (maybe) a break in the rain. I’ve got plans, sure, but I’ve also got backup plans (mostly amounting to alternate destinations). Rather than frivolously wasting fuel going all the way to one location then to another, I give myself some time to wake up properly, get my bearings, and wait for more daylight while I think things over. The whole point of this time off is to do with relaxing and indulging artistic inspiration. There’s no need to rush at all. No rules imposed on my decision making beyond being safe. No “timeliness requirements”, no “KPIs” or “SLAs”. If I wanted confirmation that I need this break from work, this morning’s somewhat panicked wake up certainly provided that!
It’s still quite early. The rain pauses long enough for a quiet walk in the pre-dawn gloom along the well-maintained partially lit trail. I gather my thoughts and consider the various locations I’d identified as being of particular interest this week. (Damn, yesterday was such a lovely day! Such a beautiful place!) I’m still inclined to head to the view points I’d selected (already a backup for my original plan, which is at high risk of snow and difficult to access under such conditions), but it’s not a route I care to drive in the dark on a rainy day. I sit with that thought awhile.
One point of view, and a pleasant recollection. Mt Hood in the distance, yesterday.
At some point, a spirit of adventure and eagerness to explore becomes a careless disregard of safety. At some point, a strict focus on safety becomes a fearful reluctance to experience something new. There’s a path between those choices. That’s the path I’m looking for, and hoping to find fulfillment, inspiration, and joy along the way. The “destination” may not actually be important to the experience. The journey is the destination.
I sip my coffee, grateful for the time I’ve taken for myself. Grateful to have recognized the need and acted upon it. Grateful for a partnership that supports and nurtures me. Grateful to see another sunrise. The sky slowly begins to lighten. Soon it will be time to begin again… I wonder where this path leads?
It’s already midmorning, still chilly. I’m warming up in the car between hiking and exploring trails, picnic tables, views and moments, and the planned purpose of this adventure; to paint. The honest underlying purpose has already been well met for this day; I have walked new trails, seen new views and new places, and experienced entirely new moments. My mind and my spirit feel refreshed and alive – so alive! It’s lovely. This is a beautiful place, and so early in the Spring (and the day) it is uncrowded.
A beautiful place for thinking and painting.
… There is a popular disc golf course adjacent to the picnic table I finally settled on, but it’s quite a chilly day, so only the most fanatic players are venturing onto the course this morning, and they are few, and no bother…
The sky is a soft featureless gray, at least for now. The river below the steep edge of the bank flows steadily past. It looks fast, deep, and cold. The geese bobbing along near the far shore don’t seem to mind at all. They call loudly to each other. Overhead a bird of prey surfs the air currents, circling a tall tree with a large nest near the top. I wonder if it’s theirs? Are there baby birds in the nest? I sit quietly, watching, listening, enjoying the moment grateful for the military experience of a lifetime ago that prompted me to bring spare socks. Cold wet feet are miserable. My feet are warm and dry, in spite of the muddy trails and occasional puddles.
One point of view.
There’s no reason to rush. I sit, warm, and filled with contentment and joy (and coffee). It’s a nice moment. I savor it. I am hoping the sun will break through for a little while, shortly. Regardless, I’ve found a nice spot for some painting and a chance to begin again.
I’m sipping my coffee thinking about a strange dream from which I woke this morning, groggy and unprepared for a new day. (I really don’t like the change to DST at all; I’ll be groggy in the morning for days to come.) In this dream, I’d somehow made my way into the basement of a large modern museum, and from wainscot to rafters that space was hung with my art – but only that difficult-to-access basement space. lol Large work, small work, framed, unframed – crammed along the walls, a chaos of color, mostly unsigned. I recognized all of it – even the pieces I haven’t yet painted – and I could examine each one clearly, and recall when (and why) it was painted. I walked through the space, eyes wide with wonder to see it all – so much! There were other things to this dream, a shared living space elsewhere, other artists (with whom I am not yet acquainted), friends (some of whom had slyly snatched a favorite piece from the walls of that place to take along for their own personal joy). What had my attention was the art – so much of it! The pieces I hadn’t yet painted drew my attention most often, and most clearly. I examined them closely, hoping to understand the journey ahead of me more clearly… “When will I paint that?” I wondered as I walked.
Waking up was a bit disappointing; I wasn’t finished looking yet, and had just gotten into a deep discussion with an old friend about a particular piece he was making his own. I wanted to tell him all I knew about it, but he stopped me. “I want to keep the mystery of it,” he said smiling, “I want to love the work in spite of anything to do with the artist”. When I woke, the thought that lingered was “how much of an artist’s signature is simply ego, nothing at all to do with the work? What might the signature take away from the work?” A lot of my work happens to be unsigned, not for any lack of intention to sign it but only because it’s generally the thing I do last – after the piece is entirely finished, the paint dried, and the work ready to sell or to hang, and because I’ve more or less lost interest in continuing to work on it at that point… I forget to sign it, until it’s necessary because the piece has sold. lol Now I’m wondering if there may be value in not ever signing some pieces, at all, and leaving that mystery intact? I sign quietly to myself, and a bit cynically; if I took that approach, sooner or later someone else would likely claim some particularly good or interesting piece as their work… and my ego rebels. There’s something here to think about… maybe later.
I sip my coffee quietly. This morning it feels… medicinal. I’m so damned groggy. Head still foggy from my dreams, feeling not quite awake, yet, though it’s been nearly two hours since I woke. Everything seems to take longer, and feels somehow less “fluid”, less routine, and taking more than usual concentration and effort. Putting words together feels a bit cumbersome and awkward. My morning oatmeal is an exercise in will; it is 100% quite disgusting this morning, and I wonder why I bother. Nothing “sounds good”, and I am noise-sensitive, and a bit cranky – I’d rather be painting. lol I have in mind a particular piece I saw in my dream… my fingers itch to put it to canvas or paper, to see it come alive in front of my eyes. (Was I actually using the heads of thumb-tacks in that composition – or were those sequins? Where did I get so much gold dust??) I chuckle softly; now is not that time. Even as the thought crosses my mind, I recognize that trying to create that piece today would only be a dim copy; it is not of this moment. I don’t work in that style or with those materials, these days. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and let the dream fade away as I sip my coffee. This coffee is so good this morning, and I am grateful to have it.
I look at my reflection in the window, a mirror in the predawn darkness. I look tired. (I feel tired.) I watch myself stretch, and gently rub the frown lines from my forehead. This too will pass, I remind myself. It’s already time to begin again, anyway…
Yesterday was a good day end-to-end. I sip my coffee thinking about it, and waiting for the sun. Daylight Savings Time ended in the wee hours this morning, and dawn will seem to come an hour earlier. There’s no “real change” to when the sun will rise, only to where we human beings place the occurrence on our clocks. I sit with that thought awhile. Time is interesting to contemplate.
I spent a couple pleasant hours at my easel yesterday, painting. Well, more accurately, I was painting at the dining table, and the piece of Pastelbord I was painting on at any given moment was taped to the table to prevent it sliding around. I no longer have an easel, and if I still had my enormous floor-standing easel I wouldn’t be using that, it was far too big for the small work I presently feel inclined to do. lol Having a tabletop easel might be nice, though; pastels are dry, but still manage to be quite messy, as little drifts of colorful dust settle here and there. An easel would tend to keep the work itself cleaner, requiring fewer pauses to carefully blow off the loose pastel.
Colorful flowers, insignificant and delightful.
I think about having a French easel, too, for working en plein air (an unnecessarily fancy way of saying “outside”). I shop for something of that sort, again and again, trying to find a combination of characteristics I like, and that properly suit my painting style. It’s proving to be surprisingly difficult. I sometimes wonder how much what I just don’t yet know about what I actually need may hold me back from recognizing what may realistically suit me in practical terms. We don’t know what we don’t know, and every “what if” scenario is incomplete because of that. I sit thinking about that for awhile.
Some autumn sunrise from a favorite view.
I sit contentedly reflecting on the paintings I painted yesterday. Each pleases me in some way. Each has some detail I’m more critical of. It’s funny that I’m simultaneously quite delighted with them, while also seeing them through critical eyes. I smile at the flowers, while thinking “ah, but if I had done this other thing, wouldn’t it be better?”, but I don’t really know that it would be better – only different. Thinking about decisions in life is much the same; we can consider how we might have done differently, but we can’t know what that other outcome might truly have been.
“What if…” is like any other sort of wishful thinking or daydreaming; we can’t really know, we can only wonder.
I watch the horizon for daybreak. Soon. I sip my coffee. It’s a chilly morning and the warmth of the hot coffee cup in my hands feels good. I think about how good a hot shower will feel after my walk, and smile with some satisfaction that the dishes are already done and won’t be waiting for me. Such a mundane detail to give me so much pleasure. It’s funny (to me) what sorts of utterly practical things can provide so much contentment and joy.
I think about my Traveling Partner, sleeping at home. He continues to make progress with his recovery, and it’s really beginning to show. That’s an immense weight off my heart, I admit; I’ve felt so helpless and worried. Caregiving is a lot of work, but beyond that, I really want my beloved to live (and enjoy) his best life!
Day breaks on another rainy gray autumn morning. The trail is visible as the sky lightens. There’s a mist clinging to the ground and the scent of the marsh is in the air. Everything seems quite still and quiet. Later, there will be time for painting between loads of laundry, and happy hours hanging out over coffee with my Traveling Partner, talking and sharing life. For now, it’s time to put on my boots and get out on the trail, and begin again.
Evening Light 