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Something for Me

September 19, 2026 //
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It’s a foggy morning. On the other side of a short list of errands, I’ll head to the coast for a few days for some solitary time, painting. I’m eager, but not anxious. There’s no hurry. I planned with care and stayed mindful of my current capabilities and limitations when I did so.

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

I’m sitting at a favorite trailhead, waiting for the gate to open. A short walk will be enough this morning. I want to leave myself enough energy at the other end of the day to easily enjoy hanging out with the ghosts of Claude (Monet), Vincent (Van Gogh), and Peter (Max). I’ve already got my pastels packed up, ready to load into the car.

… Definitely eager…

When the time came to end the work week and pull my head out of the spreadsheets and tool portals, yesterday, I found it difficult. I’m definitely for sure over that, already! My thoughts now are of colors, hues, shades, tones, and the challenges of bringing light into pigment, and giving life to an image on paper. I am expanding into the sense of self that feels the most me. It’s comfortable and familiar, and natural; there’s no need to mask anything or operate from some pretense of whatever is defined as properly professional this year, for this or that industry. It may take hours to really sink in, that the next three days are wholly about where inspiration might take me. This is my time.

I breathe, exhale, relax. Some things don’t change. Some practices have value no matter what may be on the calendar. Meditation. Writing in the morning. Enjoying a pleasant walk. We become what we practice. Taking myself to some other physical place to paint doesn’t change what I need to do to care for myself, manage symptoms, and preserve my emotional resilience. I reflect on the successes and failures of various practices over the years. They don’t all work out, and there’s been some trial and error to “finding my way”.

… Shit… I already miss my Traveling Partner and I’m not even gone yet! 😆 Well, I knew that would be a thing. I adore him. We’re deeply connected. Our lives are intertwined. I feel obvious “separation anxiety” when we’re apart – but there is value in the reminder not to take love for granted. We get the benefit of perspective from a chance to miss each other, and reconnect more deeply when we reunite.

So much of life is about love and loving.

At the halfway point of my walk, I sit with my thoughts of my beloved, sleeping at home. I could have set things up to take off for the coast at first light. I didn’t set up my plan that way specifically to run these couple of errands and take the time to hold each other a moment before I go, and do some little things to make him more comfortable and less inconvenienced by my absence. This doesn’t just feel like the right thing to do for him, it meets needs of my own, to support my partner. Without these courtesies, I’d be distracted the whole time I’m away, wondering about his experience, instead of living mine.

… I think about that for a little while…

Daybreak comes. The fog muffles the sound of traffic on the highway adjacent to this nature preserve. The darkness lifts slowly, revealing more fog, and the dark silhouettes of the grand oaks on this hillside. It seems a good setting for self-reflection and meditation. Inspiring. Lately I have been feeling so deeply inspired to paint, it spills over into other things. I’m looking forward to giving in to it for a couple days.

Daybreak comes.

I hear voices, approaching from up the trail. When they come into view, I wave and call out a good morning greeting, to avoid startling two photographers, approaching preoccupied with their conversation and their gear. They return my greeting and walk on past, towards the photographer’s blind out on the marsh. It’s a good time of year for it; migratory birds are passing through, and the weather hasn’t turned shitty yet.

I sigh to myself and bring my thoughts back to my own experience. Here. Now. Nice moment to be. I sit with my thoughts a short while longer, finding it a luxury to do so. I consider my pain, and pain management. Look over my shopping list one more time, before admitting to myself that it’s probably time to begin again. I smile like I know a secret, as I get to my feet, stretching.

… Travel tissues! I add them to my list and get going.

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

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

Art and Laundry

September 8, 2026 //
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I spent beautiful hours in my studio yesterday, productive, creative time. More importantly, it was time spent painting things I lack words for. Art is good for that.

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

There are many people who think they “don’t like” (visual) art, or don’t understand it. When I hear that, I often wonder if they have ever given thought to the idea that art is quite personal. Between the work as a practical thing and the perspective on the piece that each individual brings to seeing it, the understanding exists as a thing of its own. Every piece is not for every person. Don’t like Jackson Pollock? Okay. There are many other artists. Can I interest you in Monet, Van Gogh, or Peter Max? How about Ronnie Gold or Rothko? Each artist communicating their own way, about what matters to them, and putting it out into the world where a multitude can see it. Each person with their own thoughts and perspective, and potentially taking something from any given work that even the artist did not understand from the piece. That’s how art functions as communication, but whether a particular piece leaves any one individual unmoved is…fine. Also the way art works. Some pieces are not for us.

“Seeing Red”

… I paint things that “aren’t for you” all the time. Sometimes I paint things that are not for me, as well. 😆 I often paint to express something difficult or to process emotions, as a way of getting something “off my chest”, and to say it, to transform it, or to rob it of power over me. For me art is an act of self-care.

I walk down this morning’s trail, thinking about art and eager to be back in the studio again. My Traveling Partner also knows how important time spent painting is for me and he kept nudging me gently toward the studio yesterday, helping me avoid self-care self-sabotage traps (like housekeeping tasks that can wait a day or two). This morning I feel lighter of heart and more contented. I keep walking.

A wispy autumn mist envelopes me as I near the creek. It’s cooler this morning. I’m grateful for the cozy sweater I chose this morning. Laundry is something I can do “while I paint”, but I didn’t finish the task; it is unfolded, still in the laundry basket. This sweater just happened to be on top. lol That seems very human. And isn’t that the thing about art? It is uniquely human. Human ideas, human emotions, human complexities, human stories… “Art” created by AI isn’t actually art.

“Skyline Sunset”

I breathe the chilly morning air. It definitely smells of autumn now. Somewhere in the distance, someone has recently had their fireplace lit; I smell a faint hint of wood smoke in the air. Daybreak comes as I reach my halfway point. Chased by Venus, the crescent moon has been rising as I walk. She’s still visible, but as daylight fills the sky, the moon fades from view. I stop to write, reflect, and meditate. It’s a new day.

My thoughts are filled with paintings I’d like to paint… my studio is waiting on the other side of the work day… it’s a good time to begin again.

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

Can You Not?

June 16, 2026 //
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I breathe, exhale, and relax, and set aside everything else but this view and this moment for one minute. Just one minute of pure beautiful stillness, listening to the wind and the waves. How about it? Can you… not?

Taking just one minute.

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

One minute can feel unexpectedly long without any distractions. Why race through life’s finite precious moments at the speed of doom scrolling? Take a minute. Breathe. Slow down. Savor the moment. This one. The next. Each moment is unique and fleeting. Unrepeatable.

… Being present slows that ticking clock…

Another breath, another moment, another beginning. I reread the last few pages of the book I brought with me; I had fallen asleep reading last night, and I felt certain I’d missed something. I wasn’t wrong. 😆

I finish one last cup of coffee as I lay out my work space on the small table in this room. Spending a day painting nurtures something within myself that I can’t satisfy any other way, but there’s no need to rush. I can take all the time I need.

An easel and a view.

I sigh contentedly and take a minute to listen to the wind and the waves, and to gaze quietly out the window before I begin again.

Wind and waves and shades of blue.

I pause my painting to consider lunch. I settle for a cup of tea and a multivitamin, and return to my easel. The ocean has taken on a cloudy gray appearance and the shades of blue shift towards a troubled gray green. The gulls seem to like it, and they drift across my view surfing the invisible waves and currents in the air. It pleases me greatly to stare out at the changing view with my pastels in front of me. I add a hue to my palette. I remove others. I feel relaxed and unbothered and in my element.

… Given the time and resources, I might spend every day at my easel…

I sigh to myself happily, stretching and working the kinks out of my neck and back before I return to creative work. This fragile vessel needs a certain amount of care and maintenance if it is expected to endure hours at my easel, however delightfully those hours may pass. 😆

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I tape a fresh piece of pastelbord to my easel, and begin again.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Spring, The Art of Being

The Greening

April 12, 2026 //
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It’s definitely Spring here now. Everything is so green and getting greener each day. The combination of warm sunny afternoons, rainy nights, and cool misty mornings here is so lovely! There are so many hues of green!

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

I started down the trail quite a bit later than I do on most mornings. My Traveling Partner was already up this morning, and invited me to linger over coffee. I’m glad I did. We laughed and shared a few humorous moments of lighthearted conversation, a delightful start to the day.

So many hues of green..

The trail is damp and the puddles are plentiful. The oaks are wearing a bright green haze. Mixed among the evergreens along the creek bank, the deciduous trees are becoming hues of lush green and the grassy rows between the vines in the vineyard are bright green and fresh looking (appealing to bunnies, apparently; I see several as I pass by). A sneezing fit stops me briefly, and I am grateful for the packs of travel tissues my beloved gave me from his truck, yesterday. Well-timed generosity. I feel loved.

I find the bench at my halfway point occupied this morning. A rather fat raccoon sitting there tearing open a soggy fast food bag to get at whatever was left in it. She sees me, and before I can snap a picture, she grabs her prize and hops down into the weeds and quickly disappears into the trees and down the creek bank. The bench is damp, but the morning is mild. I put my hoodie down and take a seat.

I sit reflecting on happy outcomes of clear communication and truly having the support of my Traveling Partner. I spent most of yesterday in the studio, and enjoyed “playing in the colors” again. I really needed it. The chance to work creatively in media that feels comfortable, the opportunity to express things I struggle to put into words, and sure, also the satisfaction of creating was long overdue. Cooking doesn’t do the same thing for me. I’m a painter (as many pictures as I do take with my camera, I don’t really consider myself a photographer). It’s not even about “good” work versus “bad” work. I’m not sure art really works that way. A piece that I think was completely flubbed, not worth saving, is just as likely to move someone else as any piece I personally look upon as “a real masterpiece”. Art is very personal. I painted two pieces yesterday, and one of those thoroughly delights me. It’s enough.

“Road’s End”

I sigh contentedly, followed by a poignant pang of sorrow; my Dear Friend will never see this piece. I think she would have loved it. A large plump robin stops in front of me and sings his song directly to me, quite loudly. “What are you trying to tell me, my dude?” I ask softly, though I don’t expect his reply, a further bit of cheerful song, possibly a little demanding in tone. I’m not sure; I don’t speak robin. He cocks his head and looks at me as if waiting for something, before flying away.

I meditate and think about the day ahead. I remind myself to do some laundry. I’d rather paint, but there are other things that also need my attention. I’m okay with that. It feels like balance and normalcy may be returning to the flow of my days. I like that thought.

The gray morning gives no hint at the passage of time. I know the clock is ticking. It’s probably time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, Art, art and the artist, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, women, Words
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