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What a Wonderful World This Would Be

September 12, 2026 //
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It is the dawn of a new day. Yesterday’s mistakes and stepped on boundaries are in the past. This is a completely new and different moment. I walk down the dark marsh trail, following the circle of light provided by my headlamp.

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

I get to a pleasing stopping point. A favorite fallen log at the edge of a grassy hillside dotted with oak trees makes a decent seat. I wait, watching the eastern horizon for first light on this cloudy morning. I sit with my thoughts, reflecting on a theory my Traveling Partner shared with me recently, about a recurring theme in my artwork, “the nightmare city”. It is my rendering of a dream, a nightmare, that I have had on a recurring basis for many years. I maybe don’t remember not having this nightmare (more often than occasionally).

“The Nightmare City” 8″ x 10″ acrylic on canvas w/glow

The dream itself is simple enough. I am in a city. It seems peculiarly “hollowed out”, as if the buildings are all fake, just facades standing in neat rows. There is a background glow, but it’s hard to tell if it is lights left on, or fire, or warfare. I am walking briskly towards some point in the distance, then running breathlessly but wanting very much to stop. I usually wake before I reach that distant point, heart pounding, breathless, and frightened. Sometimes I’m in it, trapped, hurtling towards some point, when a loud blast of noise hits me with physical force, and there is a sort of popping noise and a flash of light, and so much pain. I wake, grateful to have found my way from the nightmare city, again.

The Nightmare City, some other night, different lighting.

I’ve painted the nightmare city several times. Sketched it. Painted in acrylic, with a ton of glow. Painted in watercolor, ephemeral and surreal. Painted in pastels, a city in flames and as a forlorn abandoned place that can’t harm me now. My nightmares draw me back into that strange city again and again, as if there is something unspoken that wants a voice…

Another version, “Urban Warfare”, rendered in pastels, in 2024, when old trauma and new wars collide in my dreams.

My Traveling Partner only shared his theory when I insisted I’d really like to know his thoughts. He shared his impression that it may be a remnant of “the last thing I saw” before (more specifically as) I injured my head. I don’t recall my injury with any clarity, at all. Hints of partial recollections of fragments of vague memories that generally my consciousness mind has difficulty approaching. A sense of…flight? A gasp, like a final deep breath before plunging into darkness? A distant point of perspective that rushes towards me without properly changing as the distance draws near. An explosion of light? Nothing useful. The official version, when anyone would discuss it with me at all, much later in life, was that I fell down some stairs, maybe (and now can we please talk about something else?).

“Daylight Comes to the Nightmare City”, in pastels, 2026.

My Traveling Partner finally admitted, he sees something characteristic and distinct about my nightmare city paintings; to him they can also potentially be seen as a staircase, or bannister finial, from the perspective of hurtling towards it head first. “Once I realized, I can’t unsee it,” he said. Since he shared that with me, I see it too. I touch the small triangular “divet” I feel on my forehead, and trace the cracks I feel under the skin that radiate out from there, to my hairline, and down into my right eye socket.

… And I wonder…

… Trauma is weird. I still see the city, the road leading away, and feel a strangely nauseous feeling when I contemplate walking down that peculiarly dark street as it seems to narrow towards a point. In my dreams, I never quite reach whatever waits at the other end of the road…

For no obvious reason, I hear a Sam Cooke song in my head as I sit with my thoughts,  “… What a wonderful world this would be…”. I sit in the stillness of a summer morning betwixt meadow and marsh, waiting for the sun. Waiting to understand something just out of reach of any clear memories. There’s rarely much anger left over this broken brain – there are more important things to be angry about, these days. I’m okay with who I am, most of the time. I’m grateful for my Traveling Partner, for his kindness not rushing to put ideas in my head out of compassion and love, and for sharing his thoughts willingly and gently when pressed. Considering I really don’t remember my injury, having hints and insights helps me process the unknown, and even the potentially unknowable.

… I’m okay with the uncertainty; I am loved. I can begin again, as often as I need to, in order to heal and grow, and walk on.  I look down the path fearlessly. I am awake, and safe, and life is pretty good. I smile, thinking soft happy thoughts about my partner, my best friend. I get to my feet, grateful, humming some tune that is stuck in my my head…

… What a wonderful world it would be…

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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Sleepless Nights, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, War and News of War, women, Words

Shades of Blue and Green

June 12, 2026 //
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I head down the road to a welcoming quiet trail along the Willamette River, singing a favorite rather poignant love song out loud, acapella, and probably off key. Doesn’t matter, what matters is the meaning of the heartfelt words. Love is perhaps the most human and humbling of experiences.

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

… But what do I even know? I’m just one woman living a mortal life…

I watch the sun rise as I drive to the trailhead singing love songs badly on my birthday. I arrive at this beautiful place, with my thoughts and my baggage, and hoping to do a better job of being the woman I most want to be without compromise or regret in the year to come.

Every dawn is a chance to begin again and to make the choices to be (and become) the person we most want to be.

I start down the trail and immediately find myself facing a choice. That’s often how things go. We make a lot of choices in life. Many of those will turn out to have been poor choices, once we’re further down the path life takes us, sometimes it’s hard to know when we make the choice. Ideally we learn from the experience and do something different next time. Doesn’t always work out that way… it’s a very human experience.

Go left or go right? It’s a simple choice, and either way this trail will bring me back to this place. Yes, it’s a metaphor.

I walk on. Does it matter what my choice was? Sure, it matters. My perspective will change based on my choice. I’ll see the world and my own circumstances quite differently perhaps. I walk on down the trail with my thoughts, enjoying the blue sky overhead and the many hues and shades of green. The meadow smells of Spring flowers: clover, blackberries, wild cucumber and wild carrot, various meadow flowers for which I lack names.

A robin on a fence post.

Snails, rabbits, robins, squirrels, chipmunks, a small fast lizard, a garter snake, bluejays… I stay alert as I walk. This beautiful place is home for a lot of creatures. This is a pleasant beginning for my birthday. I’ve taken today off, and also three days next week. I’ve got two of those planned for a bit of solitary time on the coast, the rest I will spend with my beloved, as much of it as he has patience for. It will be time well spent, it generally is. He’s smart and funny (and having his own experience). I’m grateful for the time we share in this too brief mortal life.

I find a pleasant spot to stop awhile, to write and to reflect on the year that has passed and to contemplate the year ahead. I could do with less chaos and turmoil. Less sheer willpower pushing me to complete tasks and more thoughtful self-care would be good, too. Doing a more skillful job of listening and loving would be a good choice, with less waiting to talk or being pissed off about dumb shit.

You know what is harder than practicing mindfulness? Living mindfully. You know what is more complicated than living mindfully? Loving mindfully. The amount of vulnerability and openness required is…much. The patience, kindness, and compassion involved are hard to overstate. The listening. The acceptance. The self-awareness. All of it takes practice. I fail a lot. I begin again over and over. I keep practicing. Incremental change over time is something I know I can count on, but it can be slow.

… And the clock is always ticking…

It’s about the journey, though, these precious mortal moments aren’t obstacles, they are the main event. I sit watching the sunlight change the green hues of the forest and the shrubs along the trail with seemingly infinite variety. There’s something to learn from sunlight through leaves. The trees and shrubs are what they are, it is the light that tranforms them. I sit with the thought awhile.

Shades of green on a Spring morning.

Three dogs run up the path, chasing each other playfully and darting in an out of the meadow, chasing each other, and the small rabbits hiding in the grass. A man approaches on the trail. “They’re friendly!” he calls to me. He’s loud. I’m not interested in conversation. I wave but don’t speak. I’m annoyed by the dogs being unleashed. The park signage is quite clear that dogs need to be on a leash, here. This man chose to behave differently. He doesn’t even have leashes with him.

… I find myself thinking about behavior vs feelings, and behavior vs intentions. We make so many choices in how we behave. I consider my own choices and behavior. How can I do a better job of reliably choosing the best behavior, moment to moment? This is worth considering.

A little while later (must be that time of morning), a woman approaches with three dogs, leashed. They are quite large, and well-behaved. They walk calmly alongside her. She stops occasionally to let them check out the scents along the trail. She waves politely as she approaches, but doesn’t break the beautiful stillness and quiet with loud greetings. I wave back. There is discipline and intention evident in her behavior and that of her dogs.

People making choices.

I watch to see which path the dog walkers will take. I’ll go down a different path, when I resume walking. I’m making choices, too. I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a nice morning for meditation, and a nice morning to begin again.

I wish myself a happy birthday, and let my thoughts wander on as the sun rises through the shades of blue and green.

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

Milestone

May 1, 2026 //
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Today is my anniversary with my Traveling Partner; 16 years together, a bit more, and 15 married. As long-term relationships go, it’s not exactly “a lifetime” – I’ve had to try a few times to “get it right”. This anniversary is a major milestone for a minor reason; it is my longest long-term relationship.

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

My next longest long-term relationships (14 years together, never actually married, and another that was 14 years married, but only 10 of those together) were problematic extensions of traumatizing models of “family life” I’d dearly like to erase from memory, but for the fact that my path through the chaos and damage eventually brought me here. I wouldn’t change a moment if it might mean missing out on the love I’ve found with my Traveling Partner.

“Communion” 2010

So here I am, walking as the sun rises, smiling and hearing love songs in my head. We have dinner plans tonight, and I’m excited about that. I haven’t gotten him a gift. I don’t know how to give a gift worthy of a love like this one on the limited budget I would have. Dinner together at the best restaurant in the area seems fitting. (His idea, which tickles me so much.)

“Contemplation” 12″ x 16″ acrylic and iron oxide. August 2011

Is love “enough”? I walk and think about that question and find myself answering “enough for what?” before shrugging off the question as irrelevant to my lived experience of love and loving. Love is love. Questions of sufficiency seem to lead down a path of price tags and comparisons and cost/benefit analysis, and that seems foolish. Love doesn’t have to be “enough” to fulfill some other purpose, it is enough to experience love, ever. I get to my halfway point, still smiling and feeling lighthearted. It’s a beautiful morning, and I am fortunate to be in love.

“Cherry Blossoms” 2011

I breathe, exhale, and relax. Meditation is difficult this morning. I fidget like a child in church, restless, excited. My mind wanders (don’t forget to pick up your Rx, don’t forget your manicure appointment, don’t forget to double-check the grocery list and stop by the store…). S’ok. It’s a very human experience. Most people don’t notice my brain damage; little glitches in the background, unusual difficulties with communication, oddball “quirks” that are actually coping mechanisms for getting around “thinking holes” and shit that just doesn’t work the way it should. I’m used to it, mostly. I’ve improved a lot over the years (so much). My Traveling Partner sees more of it than most people – and manages to be kind, loving, and generally very supportive, without succumbing to the potential temptation to exploit me to his advantage. (Not true in previous relationships, one of which apparently had exploitation as it’s specific purpose.) I feel safe and loved, which is pretty wonderful for this busted up weird human primate doing her best to figure life out, I must say. 😆

A token of affection. Love on a chain. The only heart-shaped locket I have ever owned.

I sigh contentedly, even happily. It’s a beautiful morning and I feel loved. I watch the sun light the vineyards along this trail. Such a beautiful moment. I sit here awhile longer. I have some errands to run before I return home to my beloved. I feel fortunate and merry, and supremely pleased to have taken the day off (and grateful to have had that option). Love makes it a beautiful day to be alive.

I smile and breathe the sweetly fragrant Spring breeze. I let the clock tick on (how could I even stop it?), soon enough it will be time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Skill, Talent, Practice

April 21, 2026 //
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It is a rainy morning. It wasn’t raining when I left the house, but it clearly had been. It is raining now, as I sit parked at the trailhead, waiting for a break in the rain. Sort of. I’m less waiting than taking time to write and meditate before I walk. Seems likely to be a poor morning for sitting quietly along the trail. 😆

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

Some long while ago I made a note to myself about the perplexing puzzle (for me) that is boundary setting:

Every boundary we set, however healthy, is an obstacle to the person being advised they may be encroaching on a boundary. That’s just real. It is what it is. We either set healthy boundaries – and respect those ourselves – or the world walks over us.

I made that note years ago on a scrap of paper that I later tucked between the pages of the book I was reading at the time. It was a meaningful and relevant observation in that moment; the boundary I was setting was simply that I was reading and did not wish to be interrupted for chit-chat by my then partner (now ex). I found the note recently, while moving things around on bookshelves, when it slid to the floor, a reminder from a past version of myself that this has been a challenge for me for a long time. Brain damage, cPTSD, and a lifetime of anxiety-driven “people pleasing” mingling to form a persistent bit of chaos and damage. It’s been difficult to “fix” while living it.

I’m grateful that my Traveling Partner is aware of (and alert for) this problematic bit of code in my operating system. He is quick to take note if I am exhausting myself trying to tackle every casual request in an instant, or frustrating myself by walking over my own reasonable boundaries. He reminds me to put myself first, often, and to practice good self-care. He respects clearly set boundaries with genial acceptance. But… The boundary setting is mine to do. It’s up to me to manage my boundaries, to respect them myself, to provide kind reminders when needed – before I’m frustrated, before resentment develops, before I might become likely to snap at someone I care about. It’s basic communication. I have to do the verbs. I find boundary setting uncomfortable. This is one small part of the legacy of trauma and abuse that I’m still dragging with me through life.

Working on this crap is hard, not gonna lie about that, but protecting and nurturing healthy agency is worth the effort required, and I’ve got a partner who truly enjoys me at my whole, healthy, and sane best, even when I set a boundary. I’m much better with boundaries these days, and finding the scrap of paper with the note written on it (from sometime before 2010) is a meaningful reminder that this is something I’ve had to work at for a long time.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. Basic communication skills are something human primates still have to work at to develop those fully. We’re not born as great communicators. We learn as we go. We practice what works – and sometimes what works in the context of trauma and unhealthy family dynamics is not at all healthy, nor particularly functional, outside that dynamic, in the larger world. I still struggle with some of this. Still dragging along some unnecessary baggage. I sigh to myself and imagine setting down a heavy suitcase with busted wheels, scuffed and worn and shabby looking. I imagine letting a heavy backpack slide from my shoulders to the ground. I visualize unpacking them both, and chuckle to myself because this thought exercise actually gives me a real feeling of relief in the moment.

I have no native talent for communication. I work at building my skills in this area – and have done so for years (with considerable success), and I practice what I learn about healthy communication. I improve over time. I’ll continue to work at it until it feels easy and natural. That seems like a better choice than continuing to endure being poor at basic communication. 😆 I have choices. I make choices. I practice. I improve over time.

How many times have I stood in this place, and faced my limitations aware that I have so much further to go? Doesn’t matter at all. The journey is the destination. We become what we practice. Incremental change over time is an effective approach to changing who I am and becoming who I most want to be.

I notice that the rain has stopped. I grab my cane and my rain poncho, and begin again. This is my path. Walking it requires me to do the verbs. 😄

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

Variations on a Theme

April 5, 2026 //
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I woke early, but not ridiculously so. I got up and dressed, hoping not to wake my Traveling Partner. We worked through the day, yesterday, moving things around and restoring order from chaos. Joyful work, but still work, and by the end of the evening we were both fatigued, in pain, and easily aggravated. I called it a night early, expecting to read awhile, but I quickly sank into an exhausted sleep.

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

We had a great day together yesterday, mostly. Fatigue and pain got in the way a couple times – very human. Today is a new day, and I am not clinging to yesterday’s grief; that’s generally a poor practice. (We become what we practice.)

The morning is quiet and very dark. I reach the local trail ahead of the sun. I decide to wait for the first hint of daybreak before I begin my walk. I’ve got my headlamp, but I’m not in any hurry. Even though it is Easter Sunday for many, there are no early morning events planned here (I checked before I chose this trail).

Yesterday, in the evening, I managed to hurt my knee somehow and managed little better than a slow painstaking limp, gripping my cane to steady myself through each painful step for the rest of the evening. The muscle running up the back of my thigh from the pit of my knee to my ass still hurts, but I’m not limping and for most values of “okay”, I’m okay. I’m just sore from the work of moving things around (and there is more yet to do).

I don’t personally enjoy the chaos of moving, and I’m grateful this is a very limited version of that experience. I’m delighted to have my space back, less so about the bangs and bruises of having my mental map suddenly destroyed. I laugh at myself for a moment, recognizing that as lasting consequences of brain damage go, it could be much worse that needing some time to rebuild routines and to restore a sense of object placement. This may also say something about my fondness for familiar walks and trails. I sit with that thought for a moment.

… Novelty is uncomfortable, but may be better for my cognitive health, long-term…

I sigh to myself as I recognize and acknowledge sore muscles. The walk will be good for me. I think about the day ahead. More to do, and today includes a bunch of basic housekeeping. I’ve been working from home more, which takes the pressure off the weekend, and let’s me spread things out more, and my Traveling Partner no longer requires full-time caregiving (barely any at all now), and has been resuming many household tasks he handled entirely before his injury. Fuck it’s good to have him back! … It’s still Sunday and there are still household chores to do. 😆

It’s funny, I had had it in mind to “put things back the way they were” when the Anxious Adventurer moved out… But things have changed, life has moved on, and that isn’t a useful solution in many cases. (I don’t think I have an accurate recollection to work from, either.) Change is. There are different paintings hanging in the library now, and my studio just “feels different”. I’m not even complaining or fighting it; it’s mostly better in obvious ways. There is room for further improvement and this is a choice opportunity for such things. I’ll relearn where everything is, all over again.

… And maybe even change it again, in favor of something better still…

I reflect (with some amazement and a whole lot of respect and admiration) on the way my Traveling Partner embraces the opportunity for change to completely change various elements of his work and creative spaces. I’m astonished by how little such things disrupt him. There’s a lot to learn from that.

I sit awhile longer reflecting on moves and moving and change. It’s a useful metaphor. My mind quickly wanders to art and painting and I am eager to make use of my studio, although it will see use as my office before then. Monday is almost here. I put that thought aside firmly. Neither Monday nor work need my attention today.

I look over the list of things yet to do. The sky has taken on a hint of deep dark blue. I can see the trail. Steps on a path are calling me. It’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being
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