A new day is dawning. The morning is cold and misty. The trail is slick with lingering dampness from rain. No frost, but the winter chill reminds me how quickly conditions could become icy.
My eyes see shades of gray, the camera shows me blue hues. The oaks stand silent on the question of colors.
A mist develops, and begins to thicken and spread. Daybreak arrives with the fog. The day begins here, now. What will I do with it? One thing I won’t do with it is sit here for long minutes reflecting on life and watching the sun rise. First; it’s a foggy gray morning, and there won’t be much to see sunrise-wise. Second; it’s cold! I don’t prefer it for lingering outside, still and quiet. I’m already feeling the cold in my hands and in my bones. It’s a good morning to keep moving.
…I do like the walk through the fog, though. It brings mystery to the mundane and wonder to the familiar.
I breathe, exhale, and relax, as I stand and stretch. It’s as good a time as any to begin again. I look down the path into the fog. Where does this path lead? I’ll know when I get there, I suppose. The clock is ticking.
I woke abruptly from a deep sleep. Someone had cried out, loud. My Traveling Partner! I got up before I was fully awake, and headed quickly to the sound I had heard. Pain has a specific sound, and I am still “tuned” to be alert for his voice in the night, since his injury a couple years ago (has it been so long already?). This morning? Broken toe. Ouch. Painful, but maybe not an emergency. After some conversation, he assures me he’d rather I went to the library to work, than have me stay home. He’s been trying to get some time to himself for a few days. I’m sure not going to mess that up for him.
…I am alert for him to reach out to me, anyway, my phone turned up louder than usual, and next to me on the table where I can see it if it lights up with a notification…
For almost an hour, I’ve been sitting with my coffee. Just sitting. Not writing. Not drinking coffee. Just sitting. I’m not complaining, just taking note. Weird morning. I feel a purposeful frown on my face. I am “triggered”, not so much my anxiety though, this is a different “feature” of the PTSD – this feeling of purpose on the edge of action; readiness. A left over of domestic violence bug-outs and military deployments, mostly, I guess. I tend to feel more comfortable day-to-day if this particular need to be “ready to go on a moment’s notice” is gently supported (the gear bin my SUV, water, emergency rations, and my backpack, too, are elements of supporting this need, as much as they are simply useful for camping or emergencies). Other than that, I don’t give it much thought. Fighting it definitely does not help. This morning, I have no action to take right now, but I am “on alert” nonetheless. It may last awhile. I could do without the acid reflux though. lol
I take a deliberate willful sip of my coffee. It’s just the right drinking temperature. I take a longer drink of it. I definitely appreciate it this morning. Rough way to wake up from a rare deep sound sleep. I’m not exactly groggy. I’m not quite entirely awake. I feel fired up by a sense of urgency that has no outlet, and not grounded in this moment, here, now. I feel connected to each of the many past versions of this woman that I am, who has waited on the edge of urgency, so many times, for the action yet to come. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I offer myself a silent assurance that this too will pass, and sit with the experience, waiting for that. I’m grateful for the good cup of coffee this morning. I’m grateful that I will see the sunrise a little later, as I make my way from this cafe to the university library to finish the work week, instead of from the ER waiting room.
A broken toe is not “nothing” – hell, even a stubbed toe is crazy painful (and the pain lingers). The titular “nothing” in the subject line this morning is to do with the “nothing” in my head, sitting here triggered, waiting for action that is not necessary, and is not now. I consider the sensation – it is an uncomfortable one mingled with unease this morning, which puzzles me. It’s a bit like picking up a mug I know to be white, and perceiving it as some other color entirely in spite of that knowledge. I solve it when I remember I am driving my Traveling Partner’s pickup; my car is at the body shop. My gear and preparedness are not conveniently at hand – and a sick feeling of panic surges and I feel a chill of tension sweep over me. Well, shit. Okay, so that’s not necessary. I chuckle to myself, feeling entirely too human, but appreciative to have picked up on the subtle signals from within that something didn’t feel right. Much harder to deal with a feeling that is not clearly identified, I find. I breathe, exhale, and relax; my Traveling Partner is as well prepared as I am (maybe better, considering the differences in our vehicles). I don’t have my backpack – but his is in the truck, and equally well-equipped with basics. I don’t have my gear bin, but his is there, and there’s quite an assortment of useful stuff tucked here and there. I’m less than 2 miles from home. Less than two miles from the storage unit into which I put my gear while the car is in the body shop. The panic subsides.
I sigh to myself. I feel worn down and tired. I feel more than a little “anti social”. I’d like to hop in my car and drive to the horizon just to see what might await me there. I’d very much like to… something. I don’t know. I feel a certain yearning, but it’s not clear why, and I find myself wondering if it is simply nothing more than the shifting sands of my emotions as the biochemistry of emotional experience has its way with me? I breathe, exhale, and breathe again, letting the breaths come and go, without much else going on. This is the moment I am having, now. That’s fine. “Nothing to see here.”
My mind wanders to summer camping, spring flowers, and new trails. Maybe tomorrow I’ll drive out to Chehalem Ridge, or Miller Woods? I sit with my coffee and my thoughts. Brunch with the Chaotic Comic on Sunday – unless one of us flakes on that. We often do. We don’t take it personally; we’re having our own experiences, and sometimes we need to change our plans. The friendship is worth accommodating our quirks in an understanding way. I’ve got the truck, and mild weather – maybe a drive to the coast and a visit to Fogarty Creek and the private cove beach there? The thought of a taking a different direction, tomorrow, appeals to me. I sit with my thoughts awhile longer.
When I originally planned my holiday time, it was with consideration of being new in my role, leading a team through a very busy season, and expecting I might still be scrambling to finish some holiday task or another. As it has turned out, my team is stronger than I knew and capable of getting the job done when I’m unavailable. I’m also finished with the holiday preparation. I don’t really need “more time”, but I did get quite sick after I returned from traveling for work. Turns out my plan to work half days this week (and taking the Eve and Giftmas Day off entirely) is a much appreciated adjustment to my work schedule as I get over being ill. Convenient.
Yesterday after work I focused on self-care. I feel a bit more better this morning than yesterday morning. The first thing in the morning congestion and coughing didn’t last as long, and my sinuses required fewer tissues. Small win, but still worth appreciating. I’ve got another short day today… for which I am deeply grateful. I may not actually have an entire work shift in me, quite yet. I am at least able to get a walk, and add a mile or two on these boots before the work day begins. The walking seems to help clear the congestion in my lungs.
The morning is another mild one. It rained more during the night, but for now the cloudy sky is only that. The trail is dotted with puddles. Slippery leaves are scattered here and there. I walk carefully, with my cane keeping me steady. I breathe – as deeply as I am able – filling my lungs with the rain-fresh “winter” air of the Pacific Northwest. Everything smells clean and fresh and healthy. Holiday lights on apartment balconies shine through the trees from across the creek that meanders past this section of the trail. The morning is quiet and dark. Daybreak won’t come for another hour.
“Morning! Coming up on your left!” I hear, behind me, the voice of a stranger. Another walker – the older gentleman I spotted a few mornings ago. “Nice morning for it,” I reply as he approaches and begins to pass me. “I hope I didn’t startle you, Miss, I tried not to.” He sounds friendly and not at all threatening. We walk abreast momentarily. He shares that he’s seen me walking in the mornings and admits that it inspired him to walk more.
Turns out he’s the night security guy for the construction site on the other side of the parking lot, and began getting a walk in at the end of his shift, on this trail so convenient to the job site. He wishes me a good morning as he walks on ahead (at a faster pace on longer legs). I return his well wishes, grateful to have my solitude returned, and appreciative of a stranger’s consideration. Nonetheless, as I walk I feel for the knife in my pocket, and move it to my left hand, keeping my sturdy trekking pole in my right hand for balance. Oh, I’m not any sort of intimidating character or threat, nor am I inclined towards violence, but I’d take advantage of a lifetime of suppressed ancient rage to make an attacker rethink their life choices by defending myself, in order to enjoy another mortal day in the arms of my beloved Traveling Partner.
My hyper-vigilance is aroused by this passing stranger in the darkness, which seems unsurprising. I don’t take it too seriously; I’ve come a long way over the years, and this won’t wreck my day. It barely qualifies as “triggered”, and mostly seems useful, reasonable, and manageable. I keep walking, until I reach my halfway point and stop for a moment, to meditate and write.
Even in the darkness, sometimes there is light.
The sky has a familiar faint glow of the light of human communities reflecting back from the clouds overhead. I enjoy the silhouettes of trees and buildings and partially defined shapes of things that seem less obvious. I sit with the quiet, breathing, exhaling, relaxing, and filling up on the feeling of peace and stillness of the moment. I enjoy the feeling of being free to take my time. I enjoy feeling unrushed, unharried, and unbothered.
… Happy Holidays, however you celebrate the season…
I smile, remembering that I need to pick up a holiday pie, later this morning (then find myself wondering if I’m supposed to pick it up tomorrow… and suddenly wonder what day it even is? (Then double-check the date). I chuckle to myself. A human being, being human. A soft sprinkling of rain begins to fall. Predictable. No surprise in rain falling here, this time of year. I pull my folded rain poncho from my pocket, where I had shoved it as I got out of the car “just in case”, and put it on. The rain stops. I’m grateful to be prepared.
A small herd of deer steps shyly from the trees and walks across the trail into the grass at the edge of the vineyard, a short distance away. They are aware of me, but don’t seem concerned. I watch them. They watch me. When the rain begins again, I stand and stretch, and the deer walk away slowly, down the grassy strip along the path, before veering more deeply into the vineyard. I turn the other direction, looking down the trail towards the too-bright lights of the construction site around which the trail eventually wraps. (I wonder how this trail will change after that hotel is finished?)
I sigh quietly, contentedly, breathing the damp winter air, grateful for the mild morning. I enjoy these moments… and it is time to begin again. There are more, other, moments to enjoy… further down the path.
I’m at a local trailhead, waiting for a break in the rain to walk this trail. It’s dark, not yet daybreak, and a Monday morning. The rain is falling hard, and the wind is blowing hard enough for the strongest gusts to create the appearance of waves on puddles reflecting the lights of the parking lot. If I were to walk now, I’d be soaked almost immediately, and having to fight my rain poncho every step as it whips about. No thanks. I’ll wait. 😆
The weekend was lovely. I sit thinking about the upcoming Giftmas holiday. It is shaping up to be a merry one, if modest in scale (appropriate to these peculiarly dark times here in the US).
My mind wanders to work. I pull it back to this quiet moment, here. Now is mine. At least, this “now”, right here is mine. I make a point to be present, here, listening to the wind and the rain. I think of other rainy moments that left lasting memories for one reason or another. In the distance, I see holiday lights shining through the trees along the creek beyond the vineyard, most likely decorating some otherwise hidden apartment balcony. Seeing the lights makes me smile. Seeing communities “dressed up” for the holidays in colorful lights is one of the best parts of the winter holiday season (to me).
Things on my to-do list for today continue to intrude on my consciousness – or try to. I continue to set a boundary with myself; this is not that time.
The rain stops, starts, and stops again. It’ll be daybreak soon. Can I get down the trail and back to the car before the rain starts up again? I decide to chance it, and grab my cane and pull on my poncho.
…
I’m most of the way along the trail before the rain begins to fall again, softly. I’m almost back to the car before the intensity increases from a soft sprinkle to a seasonally typical downpour. The heavy rain catches up with me just as I reach the car. I feel fortunate. I’m not soaked to the skin, missed the worst of the rain, got a good walk, and managed to avoid tromping through any deep puddles. I’m chilly and damp, but otherwise fine. I get comfortable in the car and start drying off with a microfiber towel from my gear bin, grateful for the gear I keep in the back for whatever emergencies might arise (and for hiking and camping).
The gear bin in my car sometimes gives a sort of “Mary Poppins” vibe; I often surprise myself with what is in there, and how prepared for what sorts of things I actually am. This delights me every time I open the bin with some need to address and find that I’ve got just the thing, although I often don’t recall that I put it there. 😆
The wind is blowing ferociously again. It almost drowns out the sounds of my tinnitus. I close my eyes and am fascinated by how much I am reminded of the seashore.
There’s really nothing particularly noteworthy about the morning. As is so often the case, it’s an ordinary weekday morning. The pain I’m in makes me aware of my fragile mortality for a moment, but as bad as it is, it’s not the worst I’ve known. Far from it. I’m grateful to experience the morning aware that things could be much worse; it is reliably useful perspective. I continue to sit with my thoughts awhile longer. I’ve got a little while left for myself before the desk in the library I’ll be working from today will be available. It’s still too early. I think about coffee.
I think about holiday cards (we haven’t done them this year and probably won’t; at some point I had to admit I don’t have the energy, or the will). I think about the last bit of gift shopping yet to do. I think about Giftmas morning and brunch. Biscuits and gravy this year? I find myself wanting to pair that with Bloody Marys, as my Dad would have done most Giftmas mornings. I rarely drink, and the thought makes me smile; it’s an idea built purely on nostalgia, and maybe some desire to celebrate a certain gratitude for the holiday magic my parents achieved in spite of hardship. I’ve carried that holiday spirit into the rest of my life, year after year, and I’m grateful that it continues to last.
Curtains of dense rain continue to sweep over the car. The wind rocks it with the firmest gusts. I am warm and dry, and grateful that I am not forced to be outdoors in this. There’s privilege implied in being free to choose to walk on a rainy day. I’m grateful for the choices I have in life. I may never be wealthy (nor have any notable affluence), but I do get to choose whether (and when) I walk in the rain. That’s more good fortune than many folks have. I sit thinking about that for a few minutes longer.
In spite of the darkness of the stormy morning sky, eventually daybreak comes, and it’s time to begin again. I sigh to myself, and get the day started.
It is early morning on an ordinary Monday. I’m awake, and feeling as if I’d slept in, but that’s more to do with the end of Daylight Savings Time than anything else. I got up and dressed and left the house without waking anyone, as far as I could tell. I reached the trailhead before daybreak and got to my halfway point before sunrise. The sky is just barely showing any hint of daylight yet-to-come.
It can sometimes feel as if my choices are very limited, or potentially even that I “have no choice” in some moment of stress or urgency. That’s rarely true. Just this morning, getting to this ordinary location for an everyday experience that is quite commonplace for me, I made many choices. Fleece or cardigan? Put my boots on while seated on the edge of the bed, or carry them down the hall and put them on right before I leave? Hair pulled back, worn in a twist, or loose? Grab a yogurt drink or a bottle of water on my way out? Do I need to stop for gas? Most of these choices happened almost in the background, requiring very little of my attention. They’re still choices.
I smile to myself in the darkness. I’m okay with my choices so far, today. If I weren’t, I could begin again, and walk a different path (literally or metaphorically). The small everyday choices may seem insignificant, but they say something about my values, and how well I do (or don’t) live them. That’s information worth having. It can be hard to correct the path we walk, if we don’t notice we’ve stepped off that path.
A sprinkling of rain begins to fall. I can continue on, until I reach the parking lot, or I can turn back. In this instance, the choice won’t be about distance; it’s about the same either way. 😂 I laugh and pull my tightly folded rain poncho out of my pocket, and pull it over my head. It was a smart choice to bring it, I think to myself. Then the rain stops, making it completely irrelevant. It rained only long enough to make my poncho too wet to shove back in my pocket. I chuckle to myself. Sometimes choices do work out that way. I don’t really mind being unnecessarily prepared. It’s far better than being unprepared.
I think about the day ahead. Am I prepared? Ready to make choices? Ready to do the many verbs awaiting me further up life’s path? I don’t know… I’m at least ready to begin. Again.
It starts to sprinkle again, and I get to my feet, ready to walk on. Prepared.
Evening Light 