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Walking in Fog

November 21, 2025 //
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A new day, a new perspective, and for the moment, less anxiety, which is a pleasant change from recent days.

I woke up pretty close to when the lights would have begun gradually brightening to wake me. My Traveling Partner was already awake. We exchange pleasantries and I kiss him on my way out. A lovely beginning to a Friday.

Artificial lighting shining through the fog before dawn.

It is a cold morning, just 35°F (1.6°C). I’m grateful to have my cozy cardigan on, over a warm fluffy sweater, and that my gear bin in the back of my SUV has a warm scarf, knitted cap, and gloves conveniently ready for me. ‘Tis the season, I guess. I could give up my outdoor walk in favor of the elliptical machine at home… I have that option. I prefer the real walking on an actual trail or path through some park or wild space. I’m fortunate to have the elliptical available, and grateful too; it really is handy any time I’m injured, or if the weather is too bad for safe walking, like icy mornings, or drenching downpours. Part of what I get from my morning walk, though, is the solitude. I am alone with my thoughts, uninterrupted by others. It is quite possibly my favorite luxury. (One of the benefits of walking at this admittedly ludicrous hour of the day is that I generally don’t see, hear, or even pass by anyone else, at all.)

… I start down the trail in the fog and darkness…

I get to my halfway point and sit awhile, on a favorite bench. I think about change. Last year a small conference center was built on the acreage here, where this trail happens to be. The construction didn’t change the trail at all. Now a small resort-style hotel is also being added, but on the other side of the parking lot. The construction looks like it may impair the trail at some point, making it an out-and-back walk instead of a loop, for at least awhile. I sit contemplating the many such changes I’ve seen over a lifetime. Empty lots that fueled daydreams of gardens became apartment buildings or condos. Friendly country lanes that I walked down became busy commuter byways. Empty houses I fantasized about owning were torn down for office buildings. Countryside became suburban communities adjacent to cities that have continued to sprawl. Change is.

Twenty years ago, I was a different woman, in a different relationship, with a different job, living a very different life than I do now. Funny how much things can change over time. I sit reflecting on change and gratitude; I am living a healthier life now, and I am no longer deeply unhappy. Progress. It wasn’t done with the flip of a switch, and there was no single eye-opening “a-ha! moment”. The changes I chose to make were choices made over time. Back then it seemed very likely impossible to ever be where I find myself now… but here I sit.

This is an incomplete journey. Ongoing. I sit quietly in the fog. I wonder where this path leads? In another twenty years, when I look back on this time in my life, what will I think of this woman I have become? Will I appreciate her efforts and celebrate her successes? Will I grieve something lost along the way, or feel a moment of relief to have let go of some bit of baggage? It’s a big menu and there are a lot of choices. I think about that for awhile. We don’t know what is on the path ahead, and we’re each having our own experience.

My mind wanders to friendships lost over time. Some were deliberately ended. Some seemed to fade away on their own. Some I mourn with some moment of sorrow now and then. Others only bring a feeling of relief that they are behind me now. Human primates are complicated, sometimes we travel together on this strange journey, for a little while at least, other times we just pass each other along the way, exchanging information or enjoying a brief shared experience. No wrong answers, the human experience has a lot of options. (Okay, a few wrong answers, probably, so choose your actions and your friendships with care, eh? Try to avoid creating regrets.)

Daybreak, fog, and unmade choices; a good opportunity to begin again.

The first hint of daybreak touches the sky. The foggy morning seems to change color, now a little bluer. The darkness begins to lift. I sigh as I get to my feet to begin again. I look down the path and wonder what might be around the next bend, and prepare to begin again.

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

The First Frost

November 18, 2025 //
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The morning was chillier than usual when I stepped out of the house. The air had a certain dry bite to it when I inhaled. The car sparkled under the street light. Frost. The first frost this year has come. My eye wanders over the flower beds as I pass them. “Time to prune the roses and woody herbs,” I remind myself. The car door opens with a frozen crackle. It doesn’t take long to defrost the windshield and warm up the car – it’s cold, but only 34 degrees (F), barely cold enough to frost things over.

I head up the highway with my thoughts. I’m cautious and alert for frozen stretches of roadway. There is little traffic, and the drive is a pleasant one. Nice start to the day, and I find myself smiling as I drive, relaxed and unbothered.

…”Relaxed and unbothered”… an almost ideal state of being in 2025, and it feels like a stroke of luck, and a luxury. I make a point to enjoy it, aware of how precious this moment really is…

I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a good beginning. Sometimes that’s enough.

I sip my coffee and think about the holidays ahead. There’s no stress over it, really, and I don’t have any lavish costly plans. I’m looking forward to a simple holiday at home, a chance to relax with my beloved Traveling Partner, share joy, tasty treats, and festive moments. That, too, is enough. His birthday is between Thanksgiving and Giftmas, and I often find it challenging to find something worthy to celebrate him, but that challenge is a “me thing”. Although he is particular, he is not demanding, nor ingracious, and he knows how to receive a gift well. I’m excited about my choices this year. I think about holiday baking, and setting up the tree on Thanksgiving weekend. I think about the Thanksgiving dinner, and the simple and tasty classic menu we decided on for this year. I’m hoping for a low stress holiday – no one needs more stress these days. I think about Giftmas, too, and selfishly, like a child, I think about gifts under the tree and stockings hung on the mantle. I’m hoping for fuzzy soft spa socks and books, and maybe something for the garden, or the kitchen.

My keyboard begins vexing me with some crazy bullshit. It’s wireless… Low battery maybe? No.  Some update not yet installed? Nope, not that either. It’s weird; the actions of the keys seems to change randomly. Restarting the laptop clears it up temporarily, but in a few keystrokes the problem returns. I find myself more distracted than frustrated, which seems promising, all things considered. I turn my attention to troubleshooting and the work day ahead.

… It’s apparently time to begin again.

.

.

.

…If you’re curious what the issue turned out to be with the keyboard, my function key was apparently sticking. Resolved. Feeling grateful to have done some time in a technical support role, once upon a time. Handy skills.

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Categories Allegories, autumn, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Practices, The Art of Being

Slow Living

November 16, 2025 //
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“Slow down”, I reminded myself. It is a very foggy morning. Visibility is poor on the highway, and in the darkness it would be far too easy to overlook a deer or a person attempting to cross the road. There was no traffic at all, only fog, and darkness interrupted periodically by streetlights.

The phrase “slow down” resonates in my thoughts as I drive up the highway to this morning’s trail of choice. It becomes a song in my head. It’s an old old hit song, full of optimism. I sing out loud as I drive, surprised to remember the lyrics.

The reminder to slow down continues to resonate in my thoughts, rippling beyond the obvious practical meaning and through other thoughts, washing over the recollections of other experiences. Sometimes I “go too fast” and get swallowed up by imagined urgency, or distracted from enjoying life by self-inflicted busy-ness. I reflect on that as I drive.

I get to the trailhead before daybreak. It’s very early, and very quiet. The fog on the marsh obscures my visibility even more than the darkness, and my “view” is limited to the bobbing circle of light cast ahead of me by my headlamp. Headlights of passing cars on the highway adjacent to the edge of the meadow and marsh sweep past casting strange shadows in the fog. Several times I think there is someone else on the trail ahead. There isn’t. I’ve got the trail to myself this morning.

I get to my halfway point, still wrapped in darkness and fog. I sit quietly, enjoying the stillness and solitude. I meditate. I wait for daybreak. I’m not in any hurry at all, and that feels good. Restful. Luxurious. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and contemplate how best to communicate the practical value of slowing down. I’m not suggesting do less, it’s a more subtle consideration. It’s more about presence, awareness, and deliberate mindful action, and refraining from “filling space” with motion and task handling just to stay busy, or to overcome boredom.

…Go ahead and be bored now and then, it’s probably good for you…

… Better than doom scrolling the news, by far.

Daybreak comes. The sky shifts slowly from the undefined foggy darkness to a hint of a paler bluer gray in the sky, the oaks on the hillside on the other side of the trail are silhouetted, a feathered dark edge where the sky begins. I breathe the fresh chilly autumn air. The marsh has a very specific scent of its own. I don’t have words to describe it, and I enjoy it wordlessly. I hear a noise and look down.

Near my feet a young raccoon has approached me unnoticed. I manage to avoid being startled, but hear my own voice call softly, seeming unnecessarily loud in the gloom, “Oh, hey there! Don’t have rabies, okay? You should go back to your mama, Kiddo.” The youngster stands briefly on hind legs, looking me over curiously, before dropping back to all fours, turning and waddling quickly away, into the taller grass between this bit of fence I’m sitting on, and the marsh pond beyond.

I sit awhile longer, grateful for this quiet contemplative time to myself. Vita activa may fulfill a sense of purpose (or one’s bank account), but it is vita contemplativa that I personally find most valuable for finding that sense of purpose in the first place. Our mortal lives are finite and our moments precious and few, but trying to stay busy and occupy that time every moment with purposeful action risks missing out on so much creative potential and pure joy in living some moment, just as it is. I can’t explain myself adequately well, on the value in daydreaming, in boredom, in stillness and in slowing down. I can only do my humble best with the words I have. Instead, I share some other words, more skillfully crafted. (Do you ever click the links? Are you ever surprised by what you discover?)

Ichi-go Ichi-e. Be here now. Breathe, exhale, relax. Live the life you have, while it lasts – we are mortal creatures. Be present in the moment, awake and aware. This too shall pass… it’s all quite temporary.

We become what we practice. What are you practicing? Are you taking time to really live? Put down the device. Go outside. Read a book. Spend time with a friend. Daydream awhile. Slow down. Enjoy the journey.

An autumn morning, a trail, a journey.

I grin to myself as dawn becomes a new day. A misty rain falls on the foggy marsh. I am wrapped in contentment and a soft merry joy fills my heart. It’s a good starting point to begin again.

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

The Path We Choose

November 3, 2025 //
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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.

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

Walking in Fog

November 2, 2025 //
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It is morning. Daybreak seems to come early, but it’s only the end of Daylight Savings Time here in the US. In terms of reality and the nature of time, or the timing of various celestial events, nothing actually changed. I walked the trail in the gloom as daybreak came, wrapped in autumn fog on the marsh, and grateful for my warm sweater and the soft fuzzy fleece I threw on over that.

Halfway to somewhere.

The trees form from the mist as I approach them. The morning is spooky and magical, and very quiet. I don’t hear any traffic on the nearby highway, only my footsteps and my breath. I keep walking, heading for my halfway point, and a moment to pause, meditate, and watch the dawn become a new day, before walking on down the trail and out of the fog.

At my halfway point, I stop. I sit. I write. I think. I observe. As day brightens, I see a small cluster of shapes out at the edge of the meadow. Deer. I think it’s likely to be the same small herd I often see here, when I walk this trail. Two mature does resting in the tall grass, partially hidden, and their young born this year, already losing their spots, are accompanied by a buck who stands alert and watchful a short distance away. He seems less concerned with me than whatever may be unseen in the trees beyond the meadow. I watch quietly. Color slowly becomes part of the view, as daylight begins to brighten the meadow and marsh. I see fall colors on the trees, now. The buck raises his head and changes his posture. Something has his attention, and his movement communicates something to his family. They rise from their resting place and join him, as he walks away. They move along quickly, quietly, and disappear into the fog.

I sit where I am, perched on this fence rail, awhile longer. I’m in no hurry. There is, sadly, war going on in the world, and where there is no clearly defined war going on, there may be conflict with less clearly defined sides. In both cases, the outcome for many innocent noncombatants is unchanged: violence, chaos, trauma, suffering, and possibly death. I sigh quietly. Humanity could already be beyond warfare if we chose to put it aside as an artifact of more primitive times. War is ugly, destructive, and there are no actual winners besides those who profit from it. Everyone else loses. War has no positive outcome that could not be more easily obtained (with greater value) without bloodshed. We’re pretty fucking stupid about some shit, as creatures go.

I breathe, exhale, and relax, and pull my awareness back to this moment, here, in the middle of this meadow, alongside the foggy autumn marsh on a November morning at dawn. There is no war, no conflict, here. Just the quiet and the fog, and the steadfast oaks standing nearby, partially obscured by the fog. It feels rather as if anything could be out there in the mist, waiting to be discovered. I swing my feet contentedly, breathing the chilly autumn air, filling my lungs with it, and releasing my wartime worries into the fog with each exhalation.

I remind myself to make self-care a priority.

I spend a few minutes thinking about the day ahead. There is housekeeping to do, later. I think about my untidy personal space at home. It is my office, my studio, my meditation space, and my getaway when I need a quiet moment. The relative orderliness there (or lack of it) often signals my general stress level and state of emotional health. It’s a bit less tidy than I’d ideally like, right now, and it reflects my background stress level pretty accurately. Maybe today I’ll spend some time sorting that out? I know I’ll feel better once I do, that’s just real (and a tiny bit funny).

I sigh as I get to my feet. I take a big deep breath of the cold morning air on the marsh and look up the trail where it disappears into the fog, so mysterious, so promising. I glance at the time. Just as I thought – it’s time to begin again. 😁

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being, War and News of War
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